


Alone to Be Forged Anew

by mojo_da_jojo



Series: Join Me in Heaven, and Sorrow No More [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, F/M, Feelings and Things, M/M, Sera Being Sera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2018-10-19 21:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10648761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mojo_da_jojo/pseuds/mojo_da_jojo
Summary: Lavellan will be the first to admit that geography isn't her strong suit, but she's fairly sure a ship is not the fastest way to get to Arlathan Forest.According to Leliana, Varric has a contact in Kirkwall that has managed to get their hands on a functional eluvian; Solas claims he can use it to get them to Arlathan faster than the overland route would take them.The trusting-Solas part, well. That, Lavellan is still having trouble with.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fortunately, Sera is not known for her patience. "Right, then," she says after only a minute or two, "I just have one question: what the friggin' hell is wrong with you?"
> 
> Lavellan chokes on a crumb, taken aback, and has to clear her throat before responding, "Excuse me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look, we're back!
> 
> I'm not sure if I've broken [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) yet, but she continues to be the best cheer-reader a girl could ask for.

_I covered my face, fearful,_  
_But the Lady took my hands from my eyes,_  
_Saying, "Remember the fire. You must pass_  
_Through it alone to be forged anew._  
_Look! Look upon the Light so you_  
_May lead others here through the darkness,_  
_Blade of the Faith!"_

_-Exaltations 1:10_

 

Lavellan will be the first to admit that geography isn't her strong suit, but she's fairly sure a _ship_ is not the fastest way to get to Arlathan Forest.

According to Leliana, Varric has a contact in Kirkwall that has managed to get their hands on a functional eluvian; Solas claims he can use it to get them to Arlathan faster than the overland route would take them.

The trusting-Solas part, well. That, Lavellan is still having trouble with.

It's six days to Kirkwall by ship across the Waking Sea, and the trader's vessel Leliana has secured them passage on isn't nearly large enough to avoid Solas entirely, but Lavellan makes a good effort at it. Cullen's keeping an eye on him, anyway, despite looking a little green at the constant rolling of the deck beneath his feet. The silverite shackles Dagna had crafted need a special tool to open them, which Cullen keeps on him at all times, and the phylactery he'd made is a special kind that would make Solas violently ill if he got too far from its holder. Still, Cullen was a templar once - even if it was a very long time ago - and Lavellan supposes old habits die hard. 

Not that there's anywhere for Solas to go, if he decided to run. She isn't sure if Solas can even swim.

Then there's Sera, of course. No one, not even Lavellan, trusts Solas less than Sera - but she's uncharacteristically quiet the first day, fighting off seasickness and scribbling in her already saltwater-stained journal.

Dorian, by contrast, seems incredibly comfortable not only with sailing, but also with being around Solas again. It had taken him less than twenty minutes from them leaving Val Royeaux for him to be in a heated debate with Solas over the finer points of liminal space theory and how it pertained to something magical that Lavellan immediately stopped paying attention to. She had almost forgotten how the two of them used to talk shop during their long treks across the wilds of southern Thedas.

Being on a cramped ship, though, means that Lavellan doesn't exactly have space to brood in peace, so her only option is to spend the majority of her time as far up in the rigging as she can go, letting the roar of waves and wind drown out conversation from the deck. The crew don't pay her much mind as long as she's not in their way, so she's taken to smuggling Solas' journal up to the crow's nest and spending the days at sea thumbing through it as if it will give her some insight into the man's head.

She's poring over a page on the apparent pros and cons of utilizing volatile rift energy when Sera hauls herself bodily over the edge of the crow's nest, panting, a small sack in one hand. Lavellan shuts the journal hastily.

"How the frig did you get up here with only one hand, anyway?" Sera demands.

"I have two hands," Lavellan says, waving her prosthetic at the other elf. "One's just more expensive than the other."

Sera knocks her elbow into Lavellan's, opens up her sack, and hands over a cookie.

Lavellan eyes it dubiously. "Do I want to know where you got this?" she asks.

"I didn't make 'em, stupid," Sera says, her own mouth already full, and Lavellan figures that means they're safe to eat. "You're all broody, and I didn't have time for us-cookies, so here. Stolen cookies. Better that way anyway. Means more." 

Sera kicks her feet between the slats of the crow's nest and lets them dangle. For a few minutes they munch in companionable silence, though Lavellan knows Sera wouldn't have come up here unless she had something to say.

Fortunately, Sera is not known for her patience. "Right, then," she says after only a minute or two, "I just have one question: what the friggin' hell is wrong with you?"

Lavellan chokes on a crumb, taken aback, and has to clear her throat before responding, "Excuse me?"

"Look, I know what happened to you," Sera says firmly, "and some of it you couldn't help, but a lot of it you could, yeah? You're always so together, but ever since we locked up Elfy-Eggy-Face, you've been stupid, right?"

Lavellan scowls.

"Not normal-people stupid," Sera clarifies, "just... you-stupid, which isn't as bad, only it is. Remember that time you blew up the whole village just to slow down Corypenis?"

"I didn't blow it up, I caused an avalanche," Lavellan points out. "And everything turned out fine."

"Everything turned out fine because you kept your friggin' head on straight," Sera argues. "And this time, you're not doing it, 'cause you're too busy being all pissy that your boyfriend tried to smash the whole world. Get over it!"

"I'm sorry, are you saying I should kiss and make up with Solas?" Lavellan demands. "You hate him."

"'Course I do, 'cause he broke your heart," Sera says, shoving another cookie in her mouth, "and I ain't sayin' you should trust him, 'cause believe me, I'm just looking for a reason to stick 'im full of arrows. But we need him, don't we? Only you had your head too far up your arse to see it, and you almost let the bastard get killed."

Lavellan frowns, trying to make sense of Sera's peculiar thought process. "You're saying I should have intervened? Made the Council pardon him?"

"Not even," Sera says. "What you _should_ have done was cut the bastard down in Skyhold when you had the chance."

Lavellan swallows.

"Only you couldn't do it," Sera goes on, "and you've been beating yourself up over it ever since. You think we don't all know that? We're your friends, stupid. We don't care. You're the only one who does. And everything you did since then, it's trying to make up for it, but you're never going to, right? It happened. Can't change that."

"So what am I supposed to do, then?" Lavellan asks quietly.

Sera shrugs. "I dunno, do I? But not this. This isn't helping anyone, you brooding up here all day. You're sunburned, for one, and it's boring, for two. I don't like Eggy any more than the next guy, right? But we need him, and we will for a while, probably, so we're gonna have to deal with him. You're gonna have to deal with him. So you might as well try and make up, so the rest of us don't have to deal with both of you."

Lavellan sighs.

"You're right," she admits. "I've been trying to figure out what to say to him, but I'm just so... angry, Sera. And I don't know how to _not_ be angry anymore."

"You're scared if you're not angry, you won't know what else to be," Sera tells her. "You can't be the Inquisitor, anymore, and you don't want to be the Herald. You don't know where that leaves you, so you're just angry. All the time." She smashes the last cookie between her hands, chucking the crumbs over the side of the crow's nest. "But if you don't let yourself be not-angry, you won't ever find out what else you can be."

Lavellan blinks at her. "That's... really good advice, Sera," she says, bemused. "You almost sound... _wise_."

Sera shudders. "Don't tell anyone. Got a reputation to keep, don't I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)! I'm nice!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I'm sorry," she continues, and she doesn't mean just for keeping his things. "I don't... I'm not quite sure how to be around you, yet. I know I haven't exactly been fair, to you, or to the others, and..." She fidgets with the strap of her prosthetic. "I'm angry with you," she says, "and I don't know how to stop, but I _am_ trying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, folks, the much-needed clearing of the air. Thanks again to [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) for being the best moral support a girl could ask for.
> 
> Bumped up the rating on this one for some referenced violence.

In her defense, Lavellan does _try_ to talk to Solas.

The first time she works up the nerve, she walks into the cabin that's been assigned to their party, expecting to find him alone, only to discover him playing chess with Cullen. Both men look up at her as if surprised at her presence - which, alright, that isn't entirely unfair, as she's avoided all her companions like the plague - and she chickens out and flees before either of them can even say a word.

The second time, she finds him with Dorian, being subjected to either a haircut or some strange form of medieval torture. She's fairly sure it's the former. "Don't look at me like that," Dorian says, brandishing his scissors, "I couldn't stand another day of looking at the poor animal that seems to be growing out of his skull. Would you like to be next? I'd be willing to bet I can make you a sight more respectable than Sera with her knife."

"Er, maybe later," Lavellan stammers, unable to even come up with a witty retort, and makes herself scarce.

The problem, she decides, is that the ship is far too cramped to have a private conversation with _anyone_ , crow's nest notwithstanding, and she's fairly certain Solas isn't likely to venture up there. 

She's resigned herself to waiting until they've reached Kirkwall - perhaps Varric's accommodations will allow them some time to talk - until she goes to turn in for the night and finds their cabin completely empty save for Solas himself.

"Oh," she says, caught off-guard.

He looks back at her silently, propped up on his elbows in his bunk, reading.

She almost runs away again, not quite prepared to actually have found him alone, but she makes herself stay, taking a deep breath. "Hello," she says awkwardly.

"Hello," he echoes, still watching her warily.

Dorian has done a good job with his hair; to her surprise, he didn't simply shave all of it, only the sides. The top has been left alone, just an inch or so long now - it's been growing out ever since they took him into custody - though it's apparent that Solas hasn't paid much mind to it, laying this way and that despite the order Dorian has tried to tame into it.

There's still a touch of rope burn at his throat, though Lavellan's too uncomfortable to look at it for long. The silverite cuffs at his wrists fit a sight better than the shackles he'd worn in Val Royeaux, and he's developed a few more freckles from being out on the ship's deck in the sun.

He catches her looking, and she feels her face heat. "I've been meaning to talk to you," she says finally.

"I've wanted to speak with you as well," Solas says, "but I thought you might need time." His voice is still raspy; she wonders if it hurts him to speak.

She grimaces. "I do," she says. "Or... I did. Or... I don't know?" 

She digs in her bag and comes up with his journal, holding it out to him. Solas slides a bit of fabric into his book to mark his page and sets it aside carefully, sitting up slowly as if afraid he might spook her if he moves too fast. "What's this?" he asks.

"A peace offering," Lavellan tells him as he takes it from her. "It's yours, anyway, but Cassandra gave it to me after..." There's a long pause. "After," she finishes lamely.

"I had wondered where it had gotten to," he murmurs.

"I did read it," she admits, and now she's sure she's flushed clear to her eartips, embarrassed. "I didn't - I mean, I thought you were - if I'd known you were alive, I wouldn't have... violated your privacy, like that, but I -"

"It's fine," Solas says quickly, "I would have wanted you to have it."

He smooths a hand over the journal's worn cover, and Lavellan fishes under her bunk for the sack with the rest of his things. "I should have given these back straight away," she says. 

Belatedly, she remembers that his jawbone-pendant is still around her neck, under her shirt. That's far too embarrassing to admit, though, so she doesn't mention it.

"I'm sorry," she continues, and she doesn't mean just for keeping his things. "I don't... I'm not quite sure how to be around you, yet. I know I haven't exactly been fair, to you, or to the others, and..." She fidgets with the strap of her prosthetic. "I'm angry with you," she says, "and I don't know how to stop, but I _am_ trying."

Solas nods.

"I am sorry as well," he says finally, and okay, she can understand why he's been so quiet; his voice sounds like he's recently gargled broken glass. "For many things. Not all of them," he admits, and she wonders if he's remembering the awful things she'd said to him at the gallows. "But I _am_ sorry that my actions have caused you so much pain, vhenan."

She swallows.

"I am sorry for the hurt that I deemed was necessary. For Denerim," Solas says, "and for the lives that were lost. For the Avvar."

Lavellan's hand tightens into a fist, nails biting into her palm. She blinks rapidly against her tears. _You are here to let go of anger,_ she reminds herself, but it is difficult to do that when she can remember so vividly the flaming ruins of Stone-Bear Hold, the wailing of mournful spirit-gods. Storvacker's bloodied corpse, the flesh of her foes scattered around her. The life leaving Svarah Sun-Hair's eyes as Lavellan cradled her broken body.

"They were my friends," she says.

"I know," he replies quietly.

"Why?" she demands.

He is quiet for a moment, and Lavellan wonders if he's even going to tell her. "My agents had brought back strange tales of a powerful spirit, imprisoned there. Hakkon Wintersbreath. I thought to find the secret of the spells that bound him there, unbroken even after eight hundred years. If Inquisitor Ameridan could perform such magic even limited by the Veil, what might he be capable of without it?"

"And did you find out?" Lavellan asks. She's crying again. It's all she seems to do these days.

"No," Solas says. "Whatever mark the first Inquisitor had left, his spirit did not linger there. Perhaps he had you to thank for that."

"So you killed all those people," she says, voice clenching on a sob, "and came up with nothing to show for it. Did you even think to just _ask_ them? They would have told you!"

Solas shakes his head. "They would not," he tells her. "The nations of Thedas look down on the Avvar and think them uncivilized, but they see more than their northern cousins. Thane Svarah knew me for what I was the moment she laid eyes upon me. She refused to aid me, claiming loyalty to you."

"Just another victim of the rift between us," Lavellan says bitterly. 

"I am sorry," Solas says again. "For her, and for Cole."

_Thank you. I hope I helped -_

"Don't," Lavellan grits out, because it isn't fair - she knows that Cole wasn't his fault, not really, but it's so easy to lay the blame at his feet, to hate him for it. "Please don't."

_You think you have to be the one to end it, but you don't. You can let it go._

"He was my friend, as well," Solas says, and the sorrow in his voice is real, as sincere as she's ever heard him. "I never meant for him to come to harm."

"You didn't know," she replies, a fresh wave of tears spilling over, and when she looks up Solas' eyes are bright with tears as well, which - no, she can _not_ handle that right now -

She's tired of crying, but it's like lancing a wound, flowing out of her like poison. "Cole wouldn't have blamed you," she weeps, legs crumpling under her. Solas slides down from where he was sitting, arms coming up around her, and she leans into him, shaking.

"I blame myself," he says softly.

"It was your spymaster," she says. "Not you."

"Arannia," Solas says.

Lavellan feels a little shudder go through her at the name. "Tell me," she demands.

Solas sighs. "Arannia was..." He strokes a hand down Lavellan's back, then pulls away as if collecting himself. "Arannia is dangerous," he says eventually, "more than anything else. But any tool can be dangerous, in the right hands. That's what she was to me, in the beginning. A tool."

His voice is quieter now, as if he's trying to avoid straining it. "I found her in Antiva," he tells her, "picking up the pieces of the Crows. She'd worked for them, once, but someone hunted them all down, and she was lost without their guidance. She'd joined them for the opportunity to kill humans. For all her hatred, Arannia needed someone to direct her fury."

"And that was you?" Lavellan guesses.

"For a time," Solas agrees. "When I found her she was tracking down every human who had ever wronged any of the elves in Antiva City - a long list, as you might imagine. I thought to put her rage to more productive means, and found her capable of so much more than killing. She became my spymaster, weaving her network across the elves of Thedas."

"Cole called her the 'spider woman,'" Lavellan remembers.

"Her own little joke," Solas says wearily. "That's what her name means, in Antivan. Why she would have gone after him, I don't know."

Lavellan shifts uncomfortably, but they're doing their best to be honest with each other, so she admits, "I do. She was trying to find out how I had overpowered you. And Cole told her about Mythal's orb."

"Perhaps she was trying to free me, then," he supposes. "Or perhaps she wanted the orb for her own ends."

"Could she use it?" Lavellan asks.

"She isn't a mage," he answers, "but that doesn't mean she couldn't find one."

"You don't know?" she says incredulously.

"I've had no contact with her," Solas points out, "in over a month. Her motivations have always seemed simple to me, true, but clearly she's been at work even without me, and I don't feel confident enough to guess at her goals. In any case, it may not matter. It would surprise me if we crossed her path again."

"I hope we do," Lavellan replies grimly. "I'll kill her myself."

"Revenge, then?" Solas asks.

"Justice," she corrects, "for Cole." She looks him straight in the eye. "Unless you intend to stop me?"

"I doubt that I could, even if I wanted to," he says, raising his cuffed wrists, "which I do not."

"You'd just let me kill her?" Lavellan challenges. "Just like that?"

Solas laughs humorlessly. "Make no mistake, vhenan," he tells her. "Arannia was useful to me once, but has ceased to be so. And even were I in a position to make use of her again, she would mean nothing to me beyond a tool with which to accomplish my own ends."

Lavellan hasn't forgotten why Solas' enemies called him the Dread Wolf, but there are times when the reminder hits harder than others. Merciful is not a word she would ever have used to describe him - even before she'd known what he was - but it's disturbing, the ease with which he can use the word 'vhenan' and go on in the same breath to call a living person a tool.

Still, even if Solas _is_ capable of mercy, she wouldn't wish it upon this spider woman.

"Good," she says finally. "I'd hate to have to fight you again. It's getting awfully exhausting."

"I know the feeling," Solas agrees. "You're a formidable foe."

He means it as flattery, Lavellan knows, but it makes her uncomfortable nonetheless. "I've been finding it... difficult," she says slowly, remembering the reason she wanted to speak to Solas in the first place, "to... adjust," she finishes. "Back to _not_ being your enemy anymore."

"I see," Solas says.

"It's not as simple as I'd like," she tells him.

"No," he allows.

"I'm still.." Lavellan starts. She rubs her hand over her eyes. She's never been one to hide her emotions, but opening up about them completely is still difficult for her. "I'm still so angry," she says, "not just with you, but with... everything. And I'd _like_ to trust you again, but I... I just can't. Maybe not now, and maybe not ever."

"I understand," Solas answers, "but I'd very much like the opportunity to try. To earn your trust again, if you would allow it."

"I... suppose," she says dubiously.

"Vhenan," he says softly. "I would not ask you to forget everything that has transpired between us. Nor the things that either of us have done. I would only ask that you and I allow ourselves to carry on regardless."

"A fresh start," Lavellan murmurs. "For both of us. Maybe that's all we need, to start over."

"Perhaps," Solas agrees. "In that case..."

He stands abruptly to his feet, extending his hand down to her. She takes it, and lets him pull her up, hand wrapped around his.

"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions," he says, and _damn_ him, he knows she's a sucker for that voice -

"Athima," she says, the tiniest smile pulling at her mouth. She fights it down. "It's a pleasure to meet you. Again."

He smiles back, the wry twist of his lips that she loves so much. It makes her stomach do strange things.

Before she can say anything else, though, the door to their cabin creaks open, and Sera pokes her head through.

"Oi," she complains, "aren't you done yet? The rest of us need sleep too."

Solas steps away smoothly, but Lavellan jerks back as if caught with her fingers in the pudding. Dorian and Cullen lurk behind Sera, the former smug and the latter sheepish. "How long have you all been listening?" she demands.

"Long enough to hear the rubbish you two call 'flirting,'" Dorian says breezily, sauntering through towards his own bunk. "Do try and keep it down, won't you? We make port in Kirkwall tomorrow, and some of us need our beauty sleep."

"Some more than others," Sera giggles.

"Some of us are beautiful no matter _how_ much sleep they get," Cullen says.

Dorian puts a hand to his chest. "Why, Commander! Awfully full of yourself, aren't you?"

Cullen flushes beet-red. "I - I meant _you!_ " he stammers.

A brief silence descends at his words, followed by -

"CULLY'S GOT A CRUSH ON DORIAN," Sera bellows, launching her pillow at Cullen's face, after which the three of them descend into a cacophony of chaotic teasing.

Lavellan groans dramatically. "I hate all of you," she declares, "and I'm going to bed! Right! Now!"

Despite the hubbub, though, she's glad to be with them. All of them - Solas included. 

For the first time in a very, very long time, she's found her family again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come chat with me on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)! I post when updates happen and my askbox is always open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The former Hawke estate is like a mausoleum, now.
> 
> Varric avoids it when he can; there are too many memories here, pressed into the very soul of the house. It feels as if he only needs to turn around, and he'll catch one of the ghosts here in the act. Perhaps it will be Isabela, scratching some sort of vulgar symbol into one of the banisters; or Fenris, eyebrows scrunched together as he pores over a book pilfered from the library. The kitchen should smell like Orana's cooking and the floral perfume she'd been fond of; the entryway should be scorched and smoky from Sandal's enchantments rather than dusty with disuse. Even a copy of Anders' manifesto wouldn't be unwelcome, if it meant some life in this place.
> 
> And of course, everywhere he looks, there's an empty space where Hawke should be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first of two chapters tonight, once the lovely [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) has decided the second one is worthy of human consumption.

_Varric,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. My profound apologies on the short notice, but I am afraid the matter we previously discussed has become an issue of the utmost urgency. As such, I believe we may have the solutions to each other's problems; mine, the need for rapid deployment of agents across Thedas, and yours, the unsolved mystery of a certain elven relic within your city of jurisdiction._

_Rather than one of my own agents, I am sending one of our mutual friends to aid in the coming endeavor; it is my hope that you will be as safe in her hand as she is in yours. Accompanying her is an expert on elven relics like the one that troubles you, as well as a few companions of her own choosing. With any luck, they will provide the breakthrough we both need._

_Thank you again for your continued assistance in this matter, and I hope our next correspondence is made in circumstances far less dire._

_Andraste watch over you,_

_Leliana_

Varric reads the letter three times just to make sure he's understood it correctly. Even though it had been carried by raven, hand-delivered by Charter herself - Leliana's own second-in-command - and written entirely in a cipher so complex it took him nearly six hours to decode it, the former Seeker had still felt the need to use intentionally vague language. He supposes old habits die hard, even for retired spymasters.

If she's even truly retired at all, of course.

It's safe to assume that the 'matter previously discussed' is the threat of the Evanuris returning, which Leliana had written Varric about only a few days before. 'Elven relic,' he assumes, refers to Merrill's still-malfunctioning eluvian, which they've kept a close eye on for years despite it showing no signs of being connected to the others in its network.

The 'mutual friend' has to be Lavellan, of course, assuming 'safe in her hand' isn't a grammatical mistake - he'll have to congratulate Leliana on that pun later - but it's the 'expert on elven relics' that confuses him, since no one has seen Morrigan in years, and he's fairly certain Leliana would have mentioned running into her again. He knows of only a few other people that even know the eluvians _exist_ , much less understand their use.

"Is she expecting an answer?" he asks Charter, tossing Leliana's letter atop one of the many stacks on his desk.

"I don't believe so," the elf replies, so Varric knocks the whole pile into the fireplace.

Seneschal Bran heaves a long-suffering sigh. "My lord, were the correspondences from Prince Vael not in that stack?"

"Oops," Varric says, straight-faced. He gets to his feet. "Have the staff at the Hightown estate notified that they're about to have guests - and be quiet about it, please, I don't need Leliana mad at me again - and tell Guard-Captain Hendyr I need only her most discrete men on patrol in Hightown, effective immediately, for at least the next week."

"Of course, my lord," Bran says.

Varric turns to Charter, eyeing the freckled elf carefully. "I assume you know what ship our guests are arriving on. Can I trust you to see them to Hightown without half the city finding out they're here? I know it's pretty far beneath your pay grade." It's an understatement if Varric's ever made one - Charter runs almost the entirety of Leliana's eastern operations, from the Free Marches all the way to Antiva and Rivain.

If she feels slighted by the comment, Charter doesn't show it. "I'll see it done," she says.

"Good," Varric says. "Bran, cancel the rest of my appointments for the day. I've got to find Daisy."

-

The former Hawke estate is like a mausoleum, now.

Varric avoids it when he can; there are too many memories here, pressed into the very soul of the house. It feels as if he only needs to turn around, and he'll catch one of the ghosts here in the act. Perhaps it will be Isabela, scratching some sort of vulgar symbol into one of the banisters; or Fenris, eyebrows scrunched together as he pores over a book pilfered from the library. The kitchen should smell like Orana's cooking and the floral perfume she'd been fond of; the entryway should be scorched and smoky from Sandal's enchantments rather than dusty with disuse. Even a copy of Anders' manifesto wouldn't be unwelcome, if it meant some life in this place.

And of course, everywhere he looks, there's an empty space where Hawke should be.

After Leandra had died, Hawke hadn't spent much time at home; he'd said it was too lonely without her. But without him, the estate feels like one of the Fade rifts Varric had seen all too often: a yawning chasm where the world should be.

When Varric had stepped into the role of viscount, after leaving the Inquisition, one of the matters drawn to his attention was the estate's vacancy. Bran had wanted it auctioned off to the nobility, but Varric couldn't bear to see it occupied by anyone but Hawke. Rather than admit to his sentimentality, he'd simply put it off as long as he could. By the time it had become a real issue, he'd already named Lavellan a comtesse; after a few legal transactions it had been made her property, and since she was never likely to actually _use_ it, it had remained empty, with only a skeleton staff to maintain the gardens and ensure that the house didn't fall apart entirely.

Now, those same staff are scurrying about, frantically trying to make the estate presentable on such short notice. Most of them ignore Varric and Merrill as they haul in the enormous crate containing Merrill's eluvian, dragging it into Hawke's old study.

"You're sure moving it around like this isn't going to hurt it?" Varric asks.

"No, not really," Merrill says, brushing her long hair out of her face as she leans down to unpack the crate. "But I haven't got it working properly anyway, so I don't see the harm."

Ten years ago, if someone had asked Varric which of his and Hawke's friends were most likely to still be in Kirkwall after a decade, he certainly wouldn't have put Merrill on the list. Aveline, certainly - he still tells people that Kirkwall would fall into the sea without Aveline Hendyr in the Guard-Captain's office - and himself, of course, maybe even Anders.

But Merrill is Dalish - even estranged from her clan - and the Dalish are prone to wandering, as everyone knows. But even when most of them had fled Kirkwall, Merrill had stayed behind. At first, it had been to protect the city elves caught up in the fighting between templars and mages, but she'd ended up staying even after the war had died down. Privately, Varric thinks that she'd finally found a place where she fit and felt comfortable, without her clan's suspicions clouding her judgment, but that falls under the purview of Emotional Things that they Don't Talk About. 

Now, the elves of Kirkwall view her as a leader and a caretaker, and Varric couldn't be prouder. With her help, he and the architects had designed homes for the city elves in Lowtown, transforming the dingy alienage into a thriving residential quarter. It's not perfect, but Varric thinks he's doing alright by the elves of Kirkwall so far.

"I thought you'd found a spirit that could help you repair it?" Varric asks.

"I had," Merrill says, "and it _was_ working, only then a qunari came out of it in the middle of Market Day, and I had to smash it."

"The qunari, or the mirror?" Varric asks.

"Yes," Merrill tells him.

Varric has seen Merrill rip apart enemies from the inside out. He can only imagine the ruckus caused by her exploding a fully-armed qunari warrior in the middle of a crowded street.

He's grateful he was in Orlais for that one.

"I never did get it working right again," she continues. "I know I did the spell right, but the eluvian won't connect to anything now. When you step through it, you end up right back where you started."

"I've seen Morrigan work an eluvian before. She'll be able to help you get it up and running again," Varric assures her.

"The daughter of Mythal," Merrill murmurs, brows furrowed.

It hadn't felt right, to keep the truth about the Evanuris from her. Varric had told her the whole story upon his return to Kirkwall after the Inquisition was disbanded; he'd expected her to have at least _some_ sort of reaction, but Merrill had just asked a lot of questions, about Solas in particular, and remained surprisingly mental-breakdown-less. Varric isn't sure, exactly, how she feels about discovering that her people had been worshipping their own slavers (one more thing they Don't Talk About), but in her shoes (or lack thereof) he imagines he'd be much less stable.

"You know, if you frown too long, your face will stick that way," he says lightly.

"No it won't," Merrill retorts. "If that were true, Aveline wouldn't look so pretty, now would she?"

Well, Varric doesn't have a good response to that.

They've just managed to set the eluvian up in Hawke's old study, where Hawke's griffon statue from the Vimmarks used to be, by the time Charter traipses in from the cellar entrance, smelling faintly of Darktown sewers, which - alright, yes, Varric has done a lot to improve Kirkwall since becoming viscount, but Darktown will probably always be Darktown.

Behind Charter is Lavellan, who looks... well, she looks like shit, not that Varric is going to say that to her face. In the five years since he's seen her - Maker's breath, has it been five years already? - she seems to have aged ten. There are faint wrinkles in her forehead and around her mouth, a fresh scar standing out angry-red on one cheekbone, and a stiff set to her shoulders that Varric remembers from their days desperately trying to prevail against Corypheus.

She smiles when she sees Varric, though it doesn't quite reach her dark eyes. "Viscount Tethras," she greets him, and he grins back. She smells like Darktown, too, but also sea spray and sunshine, and damn if it isn't good to see her, even with the bad news he's sure she's bringing.

"Long time," he says, shaking her hand warmly. Lavellan's companions follow in her wake, and Varric smiles even broader at Sera, Cullen, Dorian, and -

\- okay, that's not Morrigan.

"Well, shit," Varric says.

Lavellan glances at Solas, and then back to Varric. "Right," she says wearily. "I suppose we have some catching up to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can find me on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So let me make sure I'm getting all this," he says finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Chuckles actually _did_ get executed, only Sparkler apparently now has the ability to bring people back from the dead _for real_ -"
> 
> "Only the recently-dead," Dorian interjects from the landing above, where he, Merrill, and Solas have been poring over the eluvian while Lavellan fills Varric in, "and at great personal risk to myself, might I add."
> 
> "-and if that weren't crazy enough, we've now got some pissed-off elven mage gods that might be trying to wreck the world _as we speak_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes it takes [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) telling me I suck and rewriting half of a chapter before it comes out right, but... hey, I'm satisfied with this one now.

Varric missed Lavellan, sure, but he definitely did not miss the headaches caused by her tendency to get them into ridiculous situations.

"So let me make sure I'm getting all this," he says finally, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Chuckles actually _did_ get executed, only Sparkler apparently now has the ability to bring people back from the dead _for real_ -"

"Only the recently-dead," Dorian interjects from the landing above, where he, Merrill, and Solas have been poring over the eluvian while Lavellan fills Varric in, "and at great personal risk to myself, might I add."

"-and if that weren't crazy enough, we've now got some pissed-off elven mage gods that might be trying to wreck the world _as we speak_."

Lavellan winces. "That's the gist of it, yes."

"We're not entirely sure if they've managed to escape the Fade or not," Cullen adds. "Though if they haven't, it's only a matter of time before they figure it out."

"Solas seems to believe Ghilan'nain needs someone who has physically been to the Fade, so she can craft the Evanuris new physical bodies in order to cross the Veil," Lavellan says. "She tried to use me, but I got away - but that doesn't mean she can't find someone else. And Solas says if they do make it out, it will be in Arlathan Forest, and Leliana's people are saying there's been a lot of demon activity there recently..."

"You think there's a tear?" Varric asks.

Lavellan shrugs. "There might be," she says. "Or it might be nothing. Still, we have to check, and an overland route to Arlathan would take weeks that we might not have."

"Which is why we're fixing the eluvian," Varric says.

"Trying to," Dorian calls. 

Cullen rises from his chair and heads up the stairs, ostensibly to check on the proceedings. He seems to be taking his duties as Solas' pseudo-templar handler quite seriously, Varric notes. Sera immediately occupies the seat he'd vacated, sprawling sideways over both armrests.

"Taking control of the eluvian network would also be to our advantage," Lavellan says quietly, "since at the moment we don't know _who_ controls them."

"Hopefully, not the Qunari," Varric says.

"No," Lavellan tells him, "I'm more concerned that it might be what's left of Solas' spy network. We've no idea if they're still operating, or what they might be up to if they are."

"Webs upon webs," Charter murmurs; Varric had nearly forgotten she was there, leaning against the study doorjamb and listening to the proceedings. She nods at Lavellan. "If there's nothing more you need from me, ma'am, I should be reporting in."

"Of course," Lavellan says. "You don't have to ask my permission, Charter, you don't report to me anymore."

"Never did, ma'am," Charter says, winking.

"I can never tell if she's here to spy _for_ me, or spy _on_ me," Varric comments as Charter makes her exit.

"Both," the redheaded elf calls over her shoulder before slipping out the door.

"Spies," Sera mutters, wrinkling her nose. "Too complicated."

"You're telling me," Varric agrees. He examines Lavellan's face, and the deepening furrow of her brow. "Are you alright?"

Lavellan's face smooths out instantly into a practiced expression of nonchalance, which doesn't fool Varric in the slightest. Whatever she's about to say, however, gets lost in the sudden commotion from upstairs.

"-out of the question," Cullen booms, over the sounds of the three mages arguing, and Lavellan bounds up the stairs in an instant, Varric and Sera right behind her.

"I don't see the harm," Merrill is saying.

"That's because you don't know him," Cullen replies coldly.

Lavellan clears her throat, eyebrows raised. "What's going on here?"

Cullen and Solas exchange a frigid glance, but it's Dorian who speaks up first. "It seems we've diagnosed the problem with the eluvian," he says.

"We?" Solas replies archly.

Dorian ignores him. "When our small but mighty friend here shattered the eluvian after the Dragon's Breath incident, she disrupted the connection between it and the rest of the eluvian network," he says. "She repaired the mirror and restored the enchantments the best that she could, but it doesn't open to the Crossroads anymore - only an empty space."

"Which, as I have already once explained," Solas says, "is due to a discrepancy between the temporal fields generated by the other eluvians and the one generated by this one, which could be fixed with a simple application of -"

"Layman's terms, please, Solas," Lavellan says exasperatedly.

"It opens to the wrong place," Merrill answers. "Only because I didn't know where it was _supposed_ to go, not because I didn't know what I was doing."

Solas nods. "It's actually quite impressive for someone not educated in this type of spellwork," he says, "but since it doesn't do us any good with its current calibration, the enchantments must be completely undone and _re_ -done, by someone with exact knowledge of the liminal space you call the Crossroads -"

"Meaning he wants to do it himself," Dorian summarizes. "And we'd need to remove the blocker-cuffs."

"Which our former-templar friend took issue with," Solas finishes smoothly.

"You're damned right I did," Cullen says.

Lavellan looks at Merrill. "You enchanted it before, didn't you?" she asks. "You could do it again, the right way this time."

"I could," Merrill says thoughtfully, "but it took me nearly a month, the first time, and I had the help of a powerful spirit that I've since lost contact with."

"We don't have a month," Lavellan murmurs.

"No point in using the freaky mirror anyway, if it's gonna take that long," Sera points out.

"Time is of the essence," Solas says, "and we came to Kirkwall with the express purpose of using the eluvian. If we were going to take a land route to Arlathan, we ought to have left straight from Val Royeaux; if we do not repair the eluvian, we have wasted a week or more in coming here."

"But if fixing it is going to require removing the cuffs..." Dorian begins.

"Absolutely not," Cullen interrupts.

"It would be for less than a day," Solas says. 

"You could put them right back on afterwards," Merrill agrees.

"Provided he doesn't betray us within that time," Cullen argues. "There's a reason the cuffs went on in the first place. Or do you believe he can be trusted?"

All eyes in the room turn to Lavellan.

She's silent for a long time, chewing her lip in thought. "Varric?" she says finally. Varric starts, not expecting to be part of this argument. "Can I speak with you? Privately?"

Varric blinks. "Uh. Sure?" He leads her out of the study; there are still a few servants lingering around, but there's one place he knows they don't bother.

The master bedroom - Hawke's bedroom - has been cleaned, but hasn't housed anyone in years. Hawke's enormous family crest still looms above the fireplace, the only remnant of Hawke's presence here; all his other possessions had either been taken with him when he left or cleared out and given to Bethany or Gamlen or Charade.

Lavellan treads delicately here, as if trying not to disturb ghosts. Varric can't blame her. She tugs aside a curtain, gazing out the window at the Hightown street.

Both of them are quiet for what seems like a very long time, but eventually Lavellan sighs, rubbing at the place on her shoulder where Varric knows the harness for her false arm chafes.

"I'm not alright," she says finally.

"Of course you're not," Varric replies.

"I acknowledge," she continues, "that when it comes to certain Dread Wolves, I am not always the most impartial of judges."

Varric shrugs. "I'm not sure anyone expects you to be," he reminds her.

"I know," she says.

"Is that why you gave up being the Inquisitor?" he asks.

"One reason of many," she answers, "but it's the most important reason, to me." She looks back out the window. "He and I have reached a sort of... common ground, I suppose. I haven't forgiven him for everything he's done, and maybe I never will. But if we're going to be working together, we have to be _able_ to work together. And I want to believe that there's still _good_ he can do in this world."

"Sure," Varric says. "Which is why you didn't let the Exalted Council execute him."

Lavellan shifts uncomfortably.

"You saved him," he says.

"...It wasn't my idea," she admits.

Varric clears his throat. "Well that's... awkward."

She nods.

"Not the most impartial," she says again, sheepishly.

Half the world holds Athima Lavellan up on a pedestal, after everything she did for Thedas, but Varric knows stories - fiction and nonfiction - well enough to know that every hero has flaws. At least Lavellan's aware of hers, he figures.

"But I know better than to trust him," she continues. "He may be allied with us for the time being, with the Evanuris on the rise, but I'm not stupid enough to believe that's permanent. Maybe I don't know him as well as I thought. But I know that if our roles were reversed, I would be biding my time until I saw a way out of this prison. Because that's what it is, Varric, isn't it? He's walking around, but he's not free."

"With a former Templar Knight-Captain, a Tevinter magister, Red Jenny herself, and the former Inquisitor breathing down his neck? No," Varric agrees. "And he does have a pretty pathological obsession with freedom, after all that slave-rebellion tattoo-removing rebel-god business."

That gets him a laugh, if a grim one. "And if he were to get his power back... well, I know exactly what he'd do with it," Lavellan says.

" _Can_ he get his power back?" Varric asks. "How did you even manage to get him in the first place?"  
Lavellan hesitates. "I can't tell you that."

"Right," Varric says.

"And I'm pretty sure you wouldn't want to know, anyway," Lavellan says. "Let's just say it involves... how would you put this? Elfy Shit."

"Oh, wonderful," he groans.

"But he could get it back," Lavellan says. "I think. But I'm the only one who could give it back to him, which is why..." She plops down in the window seat, slumping. "Which is why I can't trust that he's trying to get back into my good graces, because sure, he might be sincere, but he also might be trying to convince me he's not a threat, to get my guard down, so that he could take it back, or worse, so I might _give_ it back to him, and then we're back to square one, and _Andraste's balls_ I sound paranoid right now."

"You sound _justifiably_ paranoid right now," Varric tells her, "and I don't think Andraste had balls." He considers that for a moment. "Though I guess she could've, and the Chantry sure wouldn't tell anyone."

"You're missing the point, Varric," she says.

"What _is_ the point here?" he asks. "Why are you telling me all this?"

Lavellan closes her eyes.

"Cole is dead," she says,

If this were one of Varric's stories, this is the part where the protagonist would fall to the ground, weeping dramatically; perhaps there would be a devoted love interest there to hold them, too, because those sorts of scenes are great for character development. Varric's in the middle of writing a tragic scene where Donnen Brennokovic finds out about the recent death of his childhood friend and swears vengeance very dramatically in front of an entire crowd of Orlesian nobles. But this isn't one of his stories, and Varric is just -

\- numb.

"How?" he asks.

Lavellan tells him everything - about Solas' spy network, and how he'd been using Cole's gifts to keep an eye on her and her Inquisition; about meeting Feynriel in the Fade, and finding Despair. She tells him about Solas' spymaster Arannia, and about Ghilan'nain, and being trapped in her coma until Vivienne woke her.

"It was so much, all at once," she says, "and I was so - angry, Varric, and I wanted someone to blame, and all I had was..."

"Solas," Varric says.

"It wasn't his fault," Lavellan says insistently, "not directly. I can see that, now. It was Arannia who killed Cole, and Solas couldn't have known that the Evanuris were awakening, and I was the one who interrupted his ritual, after all. If I think about it rationally, that's what I come up with - that despite everything he'd done, those two things were not his fault. But - I wanted them to be."

Varric nods slowly, trying to understand where she's going with this.

"I wanted so badly to blame someone, and he was an easy target," she continues. "I wanted him to suffer. I wanted him to pay. But I couldn't kill him myself, whatever the reason, so I - I used the excuse of the Exalted Council, and told myself that was enough, even though we needed him, even though I had every opportunity to put a stop to it. But I didn't _want_ to, because I was angry, and hurt, and - and a coward."

She takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I was in the wrong. And now we've sort of... not made up, exactly, but we've come to an understanding, I suppose. And he's asking me to take off the cuffs, and allow him his magic, but..."

"Your gut says no," Varric guesses.

"Exactly," Lavellan agrees. "But I can't help but wonder if I - do I want to say no because that's the right thing to do? Or do I want to say no because I'm still angry with him, and I still need to see him punished?"

"So you don't _trust_ your gut when it says no," he reasons.

"I... don't know," she says.

Varric thinks. "Have I ever told you about Bartrand?"

Lavellan blinks in surprise at his change of subject. "Your brother?" she asks. "I've read the _Tale of the Champion_."

"Well, this one didn't make it into the book," he says. He looks awkwardly down at his hands. He doesn't talk about his brother anymore, but Lavellan's about the closest friend he's got, after Hawke, and he's been dead for seven years.

"After the Deep Roads," Varric says, "Bartrand disappeared with the fortune he made from the red lyrium idol, and it took me years to track him. But I did find him again, eventually." He pauses, remembering. "I was too much of a coward to face him alone, so I made Hawke go with me, and he dragged along Anders and Aveline, and, well. It was a shit show."

He heaves a sigh. "We got there, and Bartrand was... insane. He kept talking about the lyrium idol, and he was hearing... something. The red lyrium had driven him crazy, and he just... wasn't _Bartrand_ anymore. He wasn't my brother, and he wasn't the asshole who had betrayed us, he was just... gone."

"That's..." Lavellan starts. "I can't imagine."

"It was bad," Varric tells her. "But after everything we had gone through to track him down, after what he'd done to me - to us - I was still so - I wanted to kill him, anyway. I thought it would put an end to it. Bring some kind of closure."

"Did it?" she asks.

"I never got to find out," he says. "Hawke wouldn't let me do it."

Hawke, Varric remembers, was occasionally too damned compassionate for his own good. Maybe that was why Varric had liked him so much.

"I was pissed," he admits. "At Bartrand, yeah, but at Hawke, too. But Hawke said I'd regret it, if I killed Bartrand that way, and - he was right, like always. All these years later, and I can't help but think that if I'd trusted my gut in that moment - if I'd pulled that trigger even though Hawke told me not to - that I'd be living with having killed my own brother, instead of visiting him every day in the Gallows hospital."

"So you're saying... not to trust my gut," Lavellan says slowly.

"I'm saying that when you can't trust your gut, you have to rely on the people around you to tell you which way is up," Varric says, sliding off the window seat to stand in front of her. "Your friends won't let you screw up. Sure, you had your head up your ass about Solas' execution, but Leliana and Sparkler and Curly and Buttercup, they knew what was right."

She nods.

"So your gut says not to let him out of the cuffs," Varric says, "but you don't know if you can trust your gut. So the people in there who you trust the most? Dorian, Cullen, Sera? What are they saying?"

"They're saying no," she concludes.

"Right," Varric says. "Sure, you don't trust Solas. But you trust us." He holds out his hand to her. "Trust me."

Lavellan takes it, her narrow elven hand in his broad, dwarven one. "I trust you," she says, letting him pull her up out of the window seat. "Especially to tell me when I'm being an ass."

"Oh, don't worry," Varric says, "I'm always here to knock you down a peg or two when you need it."

The argument in the study has only increased in fervor, but everyone falls silent as Lavellan walks back in, Varric in her wake. "Sorry for the delay," Lavellan says.

"Not like we're on a schedule or anything," Sera mutters. "So are we ditching this idea or what?"

"No," Lavellan tells her firmly. "We came here to repair the eluvian, so that's what we're going to do."

Various protests spring up, but Lavellan holds up her hand for silence. "However," she continues, and looks right at Solas, "I am not willing to compromise what trust we've already established by removing your blockers."

_Well-phrased,_ Varric thinks.

Solas looks as if he's about to argue, but Lavellan just stares him down. "That's not up for negotiation," she says. "You're brilliant enough that I've no doubt you can relate to Dorian and Merrill exactly the kind of spellwork needed to repair the eluvian. Never mind that they're also two of the most brilliant mages in Thedas."

"Well, now, just because it's true doesn't mean we need to go declaring it all over Kirkwall," Dorian says without even a trace of humility.

"I'm fairly sure no one intends to do that, Sparkler," Varric says dryly.

"And if it takes days to restore the eluvian?" Solas asks coolly. "Weeks? Months?"

"It takes however long it takes," Lavellan says, matching his tone. "The eluvian is a priority - who knows what kind of advantage it might provide?"

"That's certainly true," Cullen muses.

"We don't know how much time we have before the Evanuris come up with some way to escape the Fade," she goes on. "For all we know, they already have. But I trust each of you to remember the stakes here, and make haste."

Though she's addressing all of them, her gaze never leaves Solas. 

"You all know your responsibilities," she says. "Let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> something something [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com) plug


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen isn't exactly sure if he's _interested_ in Dorian, per se, but he isn't exactly sure he's _not_ interested either, but it's impossible to gauge whether or not Dorian might even be interested in him, especially so soon after his falling out with the Iron Bull, and even if there were to be anything between them there's no telling when Dorian might have to return to Tevinter, in which case -
> 
> Well. Needless to say, Cullen's thoughts on the subject are fairly conflicted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow! It's been too long, people. Sometimes life just punches you in the face. But hey, here's yet another chapter, brought to you in part, of course, by the lovely [Trish.](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz)

_Dear Mia,_

_I'm still alive. Your loving brother, Cullen._

It's become his own little joke, to start all his letters to his sister this way, but today that's as far as he's gotten. It might be a while before he's able to send it, he reasons, and he can't divulge too many details about the Inquisitor's - well, just the Herald, now - purpose at the moment.

If someone had asked Cullen where he thought he'd end up, after the Inquisition, his answer would probably not have been 'sitting in the late Champion of Kirkwall's estate, supervising a fallen elven god, a Tevinter magister, and a known blood mage as they attempt to create a magical portal to another dimension.'

Whenever Cullen thinks his life can't get any stranger, the universe seems determined to prove him wrong.

 _The Inquisitor has officially retired, though I'm sure you know that already, you great gossip. There's still plenty for me to do, though,_ he writes.

"If you're seeking an alternate career path, Curly, I'd advise against writing for a living," Varric remarks, propped up in a corner of the study with his own quill and paper. "There are much easier ways to pay the bills."

"I'll keep that in mind," Cullen replies dryly.

"Unless you want to take over my romance serial," the dwarf continues. "I'm sick of writing it, but Cassandra won't let it go."

"And deprive you of the chance to tease her at every given opportunity?" Cullen asks. "Perish the thought."

The constant hum of magical energy from upstairs has the hairs on Cullen's arms standing on end. He looks at the upper landing; Merrill is still absorbed in stripping the last of her enchantments from the eluvian, and Solas and Dorian are bent over a parchment full of sketched runes, debating over which to use. 

Contrary to what most people believe about templars, Cullen actually knows a fair bit about magic, though what he knows is limited to what was once taught in the Circles. Ancient elvhen ritual practice and Tevinter runology, though, are both completely beyond him, so Cullen doesn't pay much attention to the conversation itself. He gives a cursory glance at Solas' cuffs, assuring himself that they're still intact, before turning back to his letter.

 _I know you'll always be a military man at heart,_ Mia's last correspondence had read, _but since you're theoretically retired now, don't you think it's time you found yourself a wife? I know there must be no shortage of women throwing themselves at your smelly-booted feet._

Mia means well, but Cullen's social life is... non-existent, to put it kindly. It isn't that he's never had opportunity for a romantic relationship, but as Leliana is fond of pointing out, he's notoriously oblivious to interested parties, and clumsy and awkward when he _does_ notice.

His sister likes to point out that Cullen spends the majority of his time literally _surrounded_ by beautiful women, but the women in question are Lavellan, Cassandra, Leliana, Josephine, Vivienne, and Sera - and Cullen isn't touching any of those with a ten-foot pole.

There was a time, perhaps, when he might have been interested in Lavellan - back when she'd first joined the Inquisition - but she'd quickly become involved with Solas, and there were other pressing issues to deal with. Before her, there had been only a few women he'd taken notice of - a fellow templar at the Gallows, a merchant's daughter in Lowtown, a young enchanter in Kinloch Hold.

And lately, it's seemed like every time Cullen might have time to think about anything resembling domesticity, another world-ending crisis has popped up.

"Lost in thought, my dear Commander?"

Cullen startles out of his contemplation as Dorian drops casually into the chair across from him.

_Dorian._

Cullen may be oblivious. But he's not a fool, and he'd have to be not to notice Dorian's insufferable flirting with anyone and everyone with a pulse - including Cullen. Dorian flirts and charms and teases as if it's easier than breathing, and though it's mostly harmless Cullen suspects it rarely ever indicates genuine interest. After all, the man is the most shameless towards Lavellan herself, even though Cullen knows for a fact Dorian isn't attracted to women at all.

Cullen is no stranger to men who bed other men, or women who bed other women, or any other variety of sexuality. Fereldans in general aren't the slightest bit bothered by one's preferred bed partners, and though Orlesians are occasionally concerned with lines of succession, there's no social taboos concerning gender and sexuality. In Cullen's case, he's only ever been attracted to women, but Dorian -

but Dorian.

Dorian is -

"The runes are set," Dorian says, "so they shouldn't have need of me until Merrill is finished with the disenchantment. Would you care for a game?" He brandishes Cullen's collapsible chess set.

"Only if you're ready for another thrashing," Cullen says lightly. "How many have you lost in a row, now? Eight?"

Dorian scoffs. "There's no need to be a braggart, Commander," he says. "Perhaps I might be a more formidable opponent if you weren't so distracting with your good looks."

That's exactly the sort of flirting Cullen has learned to expect. "Perhaps you might be a more formidable opponent if you spent more time examining your strategy, and less time planning ways to cheat," he counters.

Dorian puts a hand to his chest dramatically. "You wound me."

Dorian is, without a doubt, one of Cullen's closest friends. Despite being a Tevinter magister - the embodiment of everything someone like Cullen should hate, even fear - he is one of the best men Cullen has ever known. Even when Dorian had gone back to Tevinter, Cullen had borrowed Lavellan's sending crystal at least once a week to chat, or play chess, and though he'd lost contact with most of his Inquisition friends, he'd never lost contact with Dorian.

Cullen isn't exactly sure if he's _interested_ in Dorian, per se, but he isn't exactly sure he's _not_ interested either, but it's impossible to gauge whether or not Dorian might even be interested in him, especially so soon after his falling out with the Iron Bull, and even if there were to be anything between them there's no telling when Dorian might have to return to Tevinter, in which case -

Well. Needless to say, Cullen's thoughts on the subject are fairly conflicted.

"Preparing a compendium of your memoirs?" Dorian asks as Cullen tucks his letter away.

"Writing to my sister, actually," Cullen tells him. He takes the white pieces out of habit, and sets the board.

"Mia or Rosalie?" Dorian asks.

"Mia, of course," Cullen says. "I'm always afraid she'll start sending search parties after me if I don't write her at least once a month."

Dorian always seems fascinated with the relationships between Cullen and his siblings. Privately, Cullen thinks it's because Dorian has no family of his own left, though he would never be so crass as to bring it up.

Cullen talks through most of the opening moves, bringing Dorian up to speed on everything that's happened with his siblings since they last talked - Mia's second apothecary branch opening in Denerim, and Branson's promotion to corporal. "Rosalie and Johanna just adopted a pair of twins," he says, "so I don't imagine they're getting much sleep these days."

"Good for them," Dorian says. "So you're an uncle now, what, nine times over?"

"Nine," Cullen confirms. "Nine little Rutherfords running around giving their parents headaches, I'm sure."

"And you, Commander?" Dorian asks. "No machinations for little brats of your own?"

Cullen grimaces. "Not any time soon," he says, "not with the life I lead. Perhaps someday, though I'm not getting any younger."

"Please," Dorian says, "you're only forty."

"I'm thirty-five, you ass," Cullen retorts. "And you're older than I am, in any case."

Dorian groans and rubs at his beard. "Don't remind me," he says, "I've got grey hairs coming in. I'm going to have to shave this soon, before it gets too salt-and-pepper."

"Don't," Cullen blurts before he can stop himself. He clears his throat. "I only mean - I think it looks dignified, is all," he finishes lamely, feeling his face heat.

Dorian blinks. "Why, Commander," he says, "if I didn't know better, I'd say that was a compliment!"

"Maker's balls," Varric groans from across the room; Cullen had rather forgotten he was there. The dwarf stands and stretches, bones cracking. "I'm going to go find the Herald and Sera. You two have fun making cow eyes at each other. Try not to let the flirting get too explicit, gentlemen, there are tender ears upstairs."

"I'm not a child, Varric," Merrill shouts from above. 

"Maybe I was talking about Chuckles," Varric yells back.

Dorian throws a captured pawn at Varric's retreating back. It misses and hits the doorjamb, clattering to the floor. Cullen's face has gone full-on tomato-red now, he's sure. He stands to retrieve the piece, collecting himself, and has an indifferent expression carefully in place by the time he returns to his seat.

"Does it bother you?" Dorian asks quietly. "The flirting? I can stop, if it does. I can't always help it, mind you, it's a reflex, but if it makes you uncomfortable, I can try to -"

"Why would it make me uncomfortable?" Cullen asks.

Dorian waves a bejeweled hand. "Some men see it as an insult to their masculinity," he says, trying for flippant but coming off a little more uncertain than Cullen thinks he intends to. "Especially those who are only interested in women. So really, if it bothers you, you only have to say so."

Cullen's heart seems to be speeding up of its own accord. He takes a deep breath, steels himself, and says, "Who says I'm only interested in women?"

There's a sudden _crack_ from upstairs, followed by a rattling tremor that shakes the whole manor for a few seconds. "Disenchantment's finished," Merrill calls, and she and Solas both peer down at them over the railing.

It takes both Cullen and Dorian a moment to recover, but when they do Dorian stands and slides his chair back in to the table. "Coming," he says, and makes for the upper landing.

A heavy weight seems to have taken up residence in Cullen's stomach as Dorian leaves without a word - until he pauses at the bottom of the stairs, one hand on the bannister. He turns to look at Cullen.

"This conversation isn't finished, Commander," he says, and there's - _something_ , in his gaze, glittering and promising.

Cullen just nods, and the weight in his stomach vanishes all at once, to be replaced with what feels like a thousand fluttering birds.

 _Andraste, what have I gotten myself into,_ he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wait, Jojo, what happened to the plot? Aren't there enormous things going on in Thedas right now?
> 
> Okay, yeah, sure, but why not have 1800 words of awkward Cullrian flirting instead?
> 
> As always, you can find me on [Tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dorian should probably be focusing on enchanting the damn eluvian - there are, after all, potentially world-ending events brewing (again) somewhere in the dark reaches of the Fade - but at the moment he's too consumed by rethinking every conversation he's had with Cullen in the last seven years.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a slightly longer chapter to follow-up on the last one. This one got away from me a bit, mostly because I just have a lot of feelings about Dorian, okay?!
> 
> Thanks again to [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/Users/PMLolz) for not judging me on my overuse of italics.

_Who says I'm only interested in women?_

Dorian's relatively sure he isn't dreaming, though who can even tell, these days, but if he isn't, that means - 

_Who says I'm only interested in women?_

Cullen is teasing him, he has to be, because Dorian isn't allowed to have nice things, much less the tiniest possibility of hope concerning the strapping Ferelden ex-templar Inquisition Commander that he's been harboring infatuation with since the moment they _met_ -

_Who says I'm only interested in women?_

Dorian should probably be focusing on enchanting the damn eluvian - there are, after all, potentially world-ending events brewing (again) somewhere in the dark reaches of the Fade - but at the moment he's too consumed by rethinking every conversation he's had with Cullen in the last seven years. 

_"You take such amusement in teasing me," Cullen says._

_Dorian grins. "You make yourself an easy target," he reasons._

_"I could be," Cullen mutters._

That had been only last week, as they were preparing to resurrect Solas.

_"Some of us are beautiful no matter how much sleep they get," Cullen says._

_Dorian puts a hand to his chest. "Why, Commander! Awfully full of yourself, aren't you?"_

_Cullen flushes beet-red. "I - I meant you!" he stammers._

And that had been on the ship on the way to Kirkwall. Maker, he'd actually been _flirting back_ \- or trying to, in his own Fereldan-bumpkin fashion.

"Focus, Dorian," Solas chides, and his tone sounds so much like Alexius used to that it startles Dorian out of his internal crisis.

"Sorry," he says automatically. The Fade-energy crackling in his hands wavers dangerously; he takes a deep breath and does his best to pull himself together. 

Dorian's no stranger to people finding him attractive - men, women, or otherwise. It's considered a valuable skill, back home in Tevinter, to be able to pinpoint that interest and use it to one's advantage. Dorian's gotten much better at it since working with the Lucerni, now that he's had to take a proper platform in politics. And outside of politics, it's very dangerous to misread someone's intentions in the Imperium, so he's had to become incredibly adept at gauging a potential lover's inclinations.

But he's never _once_ gotten any sort of interest from Cullen - not that he's noticed, in any case. Unless...

"Dorian!" Solas barks, but it's too late and Dorian's gotten himself too distracted; his connection to the eluvian's enchantments snaps all at once, magical backlash making him stagger back a foot or so, eyes watering and ears ringing.

"Are you alright?" Merrill asks, concerned.

"What is the issue?" Solas demands, and Dorian bristles.

"There's no issue," he says defensively.

"Merrill's enchantment relies almost entirely on your ability to place it correctly in spacetime," Solas criticizes. "Placing it incorrectly will mean we'll have to disenchant it all over again and start over, requiring time we _do not have_ -"

"I know," Dorian says. 

"If Lavellan returns, and we have not finished the enchantment -"

"It'll ruin your whole attempt to get back into her pants?" Dorian grouses.

An awkward silence descends on the room.

Dorian grimaces, realizing how he sounds. "I'm sorry," he says quietly, "I didn't mean that. I - I need a moment."

Without further excuse he walks out of the study, determinedly ignoring Cullen's quizzical look, and walks out into the estate's courtyard. 

Hawke's garden has been left mostly to its own devices, and weeds have sprung up here and there in the overgrown beds. The garden seems mostly medicinal in nature, rows upon rows of embrium, elfroot and spindleweed spilling into each other in the absence of harvesting or pruning. The tulips and pansies seems to be flourishing, though, and there's a tiny corner of the garden that actually does look tended, full of kitchen herbs like thyme and parsley.

It's also raining, apparently, a fact that Dorian had not considered before his dramatic exit, but there's a stone bench under a canopy, tucked between dead rosebushes, which Dorian claims for his sulk.

The Dorian of ten years ago wouldn't have hesitated to hop into bed with Cullen Rutherford, regardless of the man's sexuality. As a young man Dorian had been rash, and impetuous, and careless, and gotten himself hurt more than once, because in the Imperium sex with men was all well and good but relationships with men were unheard of. And despite knowing that, Dorian always found himself wanting _more_.

That was what had made the Iron Bull such a good match for him, in the beginning. Because despite the great oaf's outward appearance, he really was much more canny than he looked, and he saw straight through Dorian's trust issues and self-loathing, right to the core of him. He didn't push, didn't ask for more, just let Dorian test the waters and come back, time after time, until Dorian could finally admit to himself that he _wanted_ , he _needed_ , and that it was okay to do so.

It had been so uncertain, when he'd gone back home, but Bull had let him set the boundaries of what he needed and what was acceptable, so that he could be happy _and_ safe, which he'd never had opportunity to do before. 

They'd been together nearly six years. Six years of pressure from the Magisterium for him to find a wife, pass on his magical capabilities, secure an heir to his title. Six years of seeing Bull only once or twice a year, and making the most of it, but not ever really getting enough. Six years of growing up and learning who he wanted to be, and what he wanted, and what he really wanted was a husband, a partner. An equal. Someone to stand at his side in front of all the Magisterium, until something really changed in his homeland. 

Someone Bull couldn't be.

Dorian had been in too deep, though. Too dependent, too reliant. He wouldn't let go, so Bull did it for him.

He understands why, now. At the time, it had been... well. Not good.

He'd resigned himself to being alone, because the prospects for relationships in Tevinter were so tragically _Tevinter_ in that there _were_ none. Even if there had been other homosexual magisters in the Imperium, they weren't about to out themselves like Dorian had. Someone of the altus class might do, politically, but no self-respecting altus would put themselves in a position where their admittance to the Magisterium might be overturned due to their "lifestyle choices."

Maevaris had done her best to set him up with men, find someone he might resonate with. He'd dismissed them all for one reason or another. She'd accused him of being too particular; but it wasn't, as Dorian had tried to explain, that he was being shallow or picky. Moreso, it was that he wanted a romantic partner he already knew, already trusted, so that he didn't have to fear the inevitable rejection or derision. 

He wanted a friend, first.

"Copper for your thoughts?"

Dorian looks up to find Cullen hunched awkwardly in the rain.

"Not sure they're worth that, at the moment," he admits, and slides over to make room.

Cullen settles onto the bench beside him, leaving a few inches between them. "Merrill wanted to come check on you," he says, "but I told her I'd come instead, since I can't help feeling like... this is my fault, at least partially."

"What's your fault?" Dorian asks.

Cullen gestures at his face. "You're crying?"

Dorian coughs, surprised. "No I'm not," he says, turning his face away; he hadn't noticed. "It's - raining. My face is wet."

"Ah," Cullen says gamely. "Of course. My mistake."

There's a long silence while Dorian carefully reassembles his emotional walls. 

"I apologize if I reacted... poorly," he says finally. "I was... surprised."

"I see," Cullen says.

Dorian grimaces. "I'm not good at this sort of thing, mind you, so bear with me."

"What sort of thing?" Cullen asks.

"This." Dorian makes a vague gesture between them. "Talking. Being... honest, about. Feelings."

"Feelings?" Cullen repeats.

"Yes, feelings," Dorian says, a bit irritably. "Pesky things. I don't..." He stops himself, and tries again. "As you may have noticed, I occasionally have a hard time being... _honest_ , per se. Or open. Because honesty, where I come from, means vulnerability, and vulnerability can get you killed."

"Understandable," Cullen agrees. "You've told me enough of your homeland for me to empathize."

"So," Dorian says. "Honesty. I'll do my best. But when you say you're not _only_ interested in women, you mean... what, exactly?"

Cullen, like most Fereldans Dorian has encountered, has an incredibly expressive face. It's occasionally useful, and usually endearing. Perhaps it's the pale skin that makes their blushing so noticeable, or the complete lack of decorum that makes them wear their hearts on their sleeves.

Of course, Dorian can't claim to read Cullen like an open book if he's failed to notice something _this_ fundamental.

At the moment, Cullen's face is pinker than the pansies across the garden.

" _Are_ you attracted to men?" Dorian asks bluntly.

Cullen looks away. "I don't... know," he says slowly. "I... haven't been, in the past, but..."

Well, that's not promising. Dorian's had his share of trysts with men that were curious, or experimenting, and each and every one ended poorly.

"But you think I'm pretty, so you thought you'd use me to find out," Dorian says flatly.

Cullen blanches. "Maker, no!" he yelps. "I mean - I do think you're - _pretty_ ," he manages, and at that his face turns such an alarming shade of red that Dorian considers shoving him out in the rain to cool it down. "But I wouldn't - what I mean is - I've only rarely been attracted to anyone at _all_ , and yes, they've been women, but that doesn't necessarily mean..."

"Rarely attracted?" Dorian asks. "How rare do you mean?"

"Er," Cullen says, "four?"

"Four," Dorian says incredulously. "Four women?"

"Yes," Cullen replies, "and one of them is the Inquisitor - er, was the Inquisitor - the Herald - so I'm not sure she counts, as it was only briefly -"

"You've only been attracted to _four people_ ," Dorian repeats, "your _entire life?_ "

"Er," Cullen says again. "Yes?"

Dorian gapes at him.

"Is that a problem?" Cullen asks.

"Of course not!" Dorian assures him. "Only, I'd no idea you were an Emperor."

Cullen frowns. "Excuse me?"

"An Emperor," Dorian says, and now that he's finally figured it out, it's as if Cullen's entire personality makes sense for the first time. "It's a chess metaphor, one of the silly codes we use in Tevinter. You have your Towers, right? They only move sideways or forward. Heterosexual. And your Mages, which move diagonally, those are homosexual. Like me."

"Oh," Cullen says. "That makes sense."

"The Archon, or I suppose you would call it the Queen, moves in all directions, which of course indicates preferences for multiple genders," Dorian goes on. "And then there's the Emperor. Or the King. He only moves a little. Some games he doesn't move at all. He represents those who don't like sex, or don't experience sexual attraction."

"Well, I wouldn't say I don't like sex," Cullen says dubiously.

Dorian ignores the little flutter of interest in his chest at _that_. "Still. If you've only been attracted to four people in your whole life?" He blinks, realizing. "Is that... including me?"

Cullen coughs. "I... don't know," he says. "You're... different. I don't know if I'm... sexually attracted to you, but..."

He seems incapable of saying the word 'sex' without nearly going apoplectic. 

"Romantically, then," Dorian says.

Cullen doesn't reply immediately, but his face is answer enough. If Dorian had been feeling vulnerable before, no doubt Cullen is even more so now.

"Oh," Dorian says, at a loss for words.

"I know you likely don't return the sentiment," Cullen says, "it's only... you're one of my closest friends, Dorian, and one of the best men I've ever known, and..."

He trails off, and Dorian finds his tongue again.

"Of course I return the sentiment, you sap," he says, "I've been mooning over you since you dragged me through the gate at Haven."

Cullen splutters. "I - what?"

"Admittedly, for me, the interest was mostly sexual," Dorian goes on excitedly, "but then, most things for me are, only you seemed so dreadfully... well, _Fereldan_ for one thing, and a Tower, for another, and then things happened with the Bull, and we got old, I suppose."

"I am _thirty-five_ ," Cullen gripes.

"The _point_ is," Dorian tells him, "that _I_ never thought _you_ would be interested. And, well, here we are."

Cullen looks as if he wants very much to be hopeful, but his eyebrows are still knit together in a frown. "You say most things for you are sexual," Cullen says, "but I don't always..."

"You're not a virgin?" Dorian asks.

"No, I'm not a virgin," Cullen replies petulantly. "But I wouldn't say sex is a... priority, for me? And I don't know if I... could even..."

"Have sex with a man?" Dorian finishes for him. 

Cullen nods awkwardly.

Dorian purposefully keeps his tone flippant and light. "Were you planning on having your wicked way with me right here in the garden?"

Cullen's blush turns a fetching shade of purple. "Of course not!" he protests.

Dorian shrugs. "Excellent. Then we're of the same mind." He lays a hand carefully atop Cullen's, splayed on the bench between them, slowly lacing their fingers together and trying to ignore how his own tremble. "Both of us have quite a lot going on," he says. "We don't know where we may end up tomorrow, or the day after, or if the Evanuris are going to murder us all in our sleep before we even find out."

"That's true," Cullen says.

"As for me," Dorian says slowly, and if there's a waver in his voice Cullen doesn't mention it; "I am content with whatever I can have, with you."

 _Fasta vass,_ he's becoming terribly sentimental in his old age.

With any other man, this would be the moment where Dorian would kiss him. It's Cullen, though, and he isn't quite sure what would be - 

"May I kiss you?" Cullen asks, and Dorian just nods.

Cullen leans in a little hesitantly, but Dorian waits for him to close the distance. It's a little clumsy - just a press of lips, Cullen's a little chapped. Dorian's mustache gets caught between them for a second, and Cullen chuckles.

Well, chuckling is a good sign.

Dorian rests a hand on Cullen's chest and deepens the kiss just a fraction, just enough to taste the wet slide of Cullen's upper lip. He can feel the shaky breath Cullen takes in, feels the other man's fingers brush tentatively over his cheek, his bristly jaw.

Dorian doesn't push, and Cullen seems content to let the kiss come to its natural conclusion. They both draw back for breath, Cullen's thumb rubbing absently at his jawline. Dorian can't help the grin spreading across his face.

"You know," Cullen says quietly, still close enough to share breath, "I really do like the beard."

Dorian laughs, an involuntary, full-bellied thing that takes over his whole body; Cullen joins in helplessly, the nervousness and excitement of before giving way to surprised delight.

"In that case, I suppose I'll have to keep it, won't I?" Dorian says when he regains his breath.

"OY!" cries Sera's unmistakable voice from the manor door, and the two of them jump at the interruption. "Athy's back and she wants to know why her mirror's not done!"

"Coming," Dorian calls back.

"Yeah, I bet you are!" Sera yells, and the door slams behind her.

Cullen is the first to stand, and offers his hand to Dorian; he takes it, letting the commander pull him to his feet. Standing, they are of a height, and Dorian can't resist leaning in for one more tiny kiss before he tugs Cullen back into the rain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: hey wasn't this fic supposed to be solavellan  
> also me: ok but have you considered... 2800 WORDS OF CULLRIAN FLUFF  
> me: fair enough
> 
> You can come bitch at me over plot bunnies on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The disaster starts, as most of these disasters do, with Sera claiming it would be a "piece of cake."
> 
> "Not sure about you, but I like my cake a little less trying-to-kill-me," Lavellan yells over her shoulder, already six or seven strides ahead of Sera as they flee the twenty-or-so Darktown thugs chasing them down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I'm sure you're all tired of reading my apologies for late chapters, so shall I just say... thanks as always to [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) and... enjoy?
> 
> Warnings for some gore, a little bit of language, and light body dysphoria regarding Lavellan's arm.

The disaster starts, as most of these disasters do, with Sera claiming it would be a "piece of cake."

"Not sure about you, but I like my cake a little less trying-to-kill-me," Lavellan yells over her shoulder, already six or seven strides ahead of Sera as they flee the twenty-or-so Darktown thugs chasing them down.

"We can take 'em," Sera shouts back, "just need to thin 'em out a bit - that's your specialty, innit?!"

"If you say so," Lavellan replies, and frees a smoke bottle from her belt, vanishing from view as it crunches underfoot. She can hear Sera coughing and cursing her as she splits off from the path they'd been on, circling back, hidden, to come up behind the main group of thugs, out of sight.

Most of them are poorly armored, although Lavellan knows they're well-paid; Charade's information had told them as much, given who they're working for. Apparently, the Friends had been targeting this particular lord for a while, and Lavellan had needed a distraction.

Lavellan slows her pace just enough to knock and draw an arrow, and shoots without hesitation; her first shot pierces the neck of the thug bringing up the rear, and he drops like a stone. She picks off two more in quick succession before their friends take notice, and two men and a woman break off from the main pack to rush towards her without any finesse whatsoever. 

_Amateurs,_ she thinks, drawing her dagger. She slices at one, knocking the sword from his hands before dispatching him with a swift kick to the head; she feels the bones of his face crunch against her boot. Her momentum carries her spinning into the next enemy, dagger plunging into his shoulder. She yanks it out mercilessly. 

The last thug turns tail and runs. Lavellan tosses her bow aside and hurls herself at the woman's unprotected back, blade sinking deep into flesh. Blood spatters over her chest and arms. It glows eerily in the greenish light of the Anchor.

_...wait._

Lavellan stares down at her hand. At her hands.

_Fuck._

She's dreaming again. This had already happened - the chase and the fight with Sera - earlier in the day, and they'd come back to the manor to a still-malfunctioning eluvian, and Lavellan had gone to bed frustrated and exhausted.

"Figured it out, have you?"

Sera - no, not Sera - stalks towards her, bow held loosely at her - its - side. 

"Ghilan'nain," Lavellan says warily.

"No," says the thing wearing Sera's face, but Lavellan takes a step back nevertheless. The thing chuckles, a dark, dangerous sound made even more eerie by the fact that it's coming out of Sera's mouth. "You can relax, little hunter. I'm not here to harm you."

Lavellan reaches for Cole's amulet, and as she touches it the Sera-thing shifts and melts away, just as Ghilan'nain's illusion had before. The creature left behind is vaguely person-shaped, though it more closely resembles a bird of prey. Its legs twist oddly outwards - speckled skin giving way to wicked talons instead of feet - and long feathery wings trail from its spindly arms. It towers over Lavellan, ten feet tall or more, a long, whip-like tail swishing almost lazily in its wake. It has an elven face and ears for the most part; where its eyes should be, though, is nothing but blank space, blocked out by the base of a resplendent red-and-gold crest of feathers.

Lavellan thinks of the legends her people tell, and thinks that regardless of how warped they've become over the ages, there must be some element of truth to them, because this thing is unmistakably -

"Andruil," she realizes.

The thing's mouth splits into a wide grin of double-rowed, razor-sharp teeth. "You're as clever as the spirits say," it - she - says. "It's good to know your reputation is deserved."

"What do you want from me?" Lavellan demands, dagger at the ready.

"Such a fierce little thing!" the Evanuris crows, leaning down to be at Lavellan's height, their heads level. Wings close in from the sides, boxing her in. Up close, Andruil's eyeless face is even more unnerving; feathers brush against Lavellan's neck as she moves close, scenting. 

Lavellan shudders but stands her ground. "This is only a dream," she says, valiantly keeping her voice steady. "I'm not physically here. My 'essence' is useless to you."

Andruil laughs again. "As I said, I'm not here to hurt you," she says. "We have what we need, _da'lavaslan'fen_ , we've no more use for you."

Lavellan's blood runs cold.

"But I'll admit, I wanted to meet you myself," Andruil continues, "before the fight divides us."

"Why?" Lavellan asks.

Andruil shrugs one wing in a rustle of feathers. "Why not?" she counters. "Shouldn't I be curious, about the little mortal who leashed the Dread Wolf? You may have been dedicated to my wife, but you have the heart of the hunter." She cocks her bird-like head. "And clever as well. It's no wonder Fen'Harel likes you."

It's uncanny, the way Lavellan can feel the weight of Andruil's gaze despite her not having eyes. "What is it you want?" Lavellan asks, rather than rise to the bait of Solas' title.

"I wanted to meet you myself," Andruil says easily enough, "before the fight divides us. And to bring you a gift, however short-lived it may be."

"A gift?" Lavellan repeats dubiously.

Andruil smiles again, all teeth. "Oh yes," she says gleefully. "It awaits in your world, _da'lavaslan'fen_. I trust you'll prove you're worth the trouble. After all, a prize unfought for is a prize unearned."

Lavellan wakes in darkness.

For a moment she doesn't quite remember where she is, disoriented from the abrupt shift between Fade-dreams and reality. It takes her a few seconds to realize that someone is knocking at the door of the guest room she's been given.

Hawke's estate is not so large that the five of them - seven, counting Merrill and Varric - have their own rooms, but Varric had retired to his own home earlier on in the evening, and Dorian, Solas, and Merrill had elected to work on the eluvian through the night. It had allowed Lavellan, Cullen, and Sera to bunk separately, even without anyone sleeping in Hawke's master bedroom, which no one had really wanted to disturb.

"Come in," she calls groggily after a brief once-over to make sure she's halfway decent.

A pale sliver of light brightens the room as Solas peers around the door. Lavellan supposes it must be rather late, then, or rather early.

"My apologies for waking you," Solas says cautiously, "but I thought you'd like to know the eluvian is nearly finished."

Lavellan stifles a yawn. "Nearly finished?" she asks.

Solas nods, silhouetted in candlelight from the hallway. "All that remains is to speak the passphrase to connect it to the remainder of the network," he says, "and I thought you might like to be present."

"I'll be there shortly," she tells him.

"Of course," he says, but doesn't leave; there's a hesitation to his bearing that Lavellan rarely sees from him.

"Is everything all right?" she asks tentatively.

Solas stiffens as if startled. "Yes," he says, "my apologies, I didn't mean to... stare."

Lavellan frowns, looking down at herself, and realizes -

\- her arm. Or rather, her lack of one.

In the weeks and months immediately following the loss of her arm, Lavellan became accustomed to healers and mages studying the injury. And it had taken her a very long time to adjust to having only one hand, and to relearn even the simplest tasks like dressing herself, let alone how to fight and defend herself again. For a long time, Cassandra had assigned servants to assist her with dressing and other menial tasks, which had been humiliating, of course - but she'd eventually learned to function on her own, with only a little deviance from her usual routine.

For that reason, it had been years since she'd let anyone see her bare left arm, save perhaps the occasional lover - although Maker knows there have been precious few of those. Her clothes are always intentionally long-sleeved, and even on the rare opportunities that she's comfortable enough going without her prosthetic, she keeps her sleeve carefully pinned in place. It's not that she's _ashamed_ of the injury, it's only that she wears her title and her authority like armor, and any sign of weakness - however small - might create chinks in that armor, and that is something she cannot afford to do, Inquisitor or not.

Here, though, in the privacy of a bedroom unshared, she's wearing only her sleep pants and a thin nightshirt that leaves most of her shoulders and arms bare, and Solas has carefully diverted his gaze from what remains of her left arm.

For a long, unsettling moment, she feels very vulnerable before him, in a way she never has before. She takes a deep breath and reminds herself that she has seen Solas at his absolute most vulnerable, and that they are both of them attempting to keep their tentative friendship as peaceful and honest as possible.

"It's alright," she says, "I've grown used to it."

"Does it hurt?" Solas asks quietly.

Lavellan hesitates. "Not physically," she admits.

It's always difficult for her to find the words to describe the feeling that there should be an arm where there isn't one. There's no ache, or itch, or pins and needles. There's just a... _space_ , where there shouldn't be, and a discrepancy between the body Lavellan sees in the mirror and the one that feels right. A feeling of wrongness.

" _Ir abelas,_ " Solas says, but she shakes her head.

"Don't," she says, "it saved my life."

Solas opens his mouth, ostensibly to argue, but Lavellan's sick of arguing with him. "Come in, won't you?" she says tiredly. "And close the door."

He frowns, but obeys, casting them into darkness. Lavellan fumbles for the candle at her bedside, wedging the holder between her side and elbow so she can strike and light it.

"I never blamed you for the Anchor, you know," she says mildly. "Everything else, maybe. Not that. It made me who I am."

"It never defined you," Solas tells her, sitting down next to her.

"No," Lavellan says, and leaves it at that.

"May I?" he asks, gesturing at her arm, and she nods. The brush of his fingers against the stump of her arm is feather-light and unbearably gentle, tracing across the angry red marks left by the harness of her prosthetic.

She doesn't shiver at the sensation. It's a close thing, though.

"It was, admittedly, an improvised bit of magic," Solas says, lifting her arm gently to look at the inside. "There was no scarring?"

"None," Lavellan says, and tries to imagine him as just another healer. It doesn't really work. "Every mage that looked at it said it was less like an injury and more like a... birth defect, something I'd been born with."

"The Anchor had bonded itself to your soul," he tells her, "more closely than I had imagined possible. It was intended for my own soul, which could have sustained it without ill effect. Any lesser mortal soul would have been torn apart by its power, especially with its potency left unchecked by the orb."

He lifts his grey gaze to hers, and Lavellan suddenly becomes aware that they are very, very close. "It is a testament to the strength of your spirit that you were able to wield it as long as you did," Solas says, quietly, "let alone to such great extent."

His fingers fall from her arm; Lavellan's good hand moves - rather without her permission - to catch his wrist, fingers closing around silverite cuff and flesh alike. She can feel the rhythm of his pulse under her thumb, thrumming quick as a bird's despite his calm expression. The space between them has become small, intimate, and yet insurmountable.

Despite everything that yet stands between them, she still _wants_ him so badly it physically hurts.

"Solas," she says, to break the silence and to keep herself in check, "what does _da'lavaslan'fen_ mean?"

"Who called you that?" Solas asks, frowning.

"Er," Lavellan says. She lets go of his wrist, sheepish. "No one?"

Solas raises his eyebrows. 

"I... may have had another dream," she admits. "About the Evanuris."

"Andruil," Solas says archly, as if the very name leaves a bitter taste in his mouth.

Lavellan blinks. "Yes," she says. "How did you know?"

" _Da'lavaslan'fen,_ " he says, "is a... title. An epithet. Meant for you, apparently. Andruil is fond of her nicknames; she is the one who first branded me the Dread Wolf." Solas' mouth twists. "She meant it as an insult, as she means to insult you now."

"I thought it must be something about you," Lavellan guesses, "because of the ' _fen_.'"

Solas nods. "A rough translation would be 'the one that tames the wolf,'" he says, "derived from _vaslana_ , 'to tame.'"

"Implying that I've tamed you," she concludes.

"Inasmuch as any wolf can be tamed," Solas contends, posture straightening almost imperceptibly.

Sometimes it's so easy to see why Mythal had named him Pride, Lavellan thinks, rolling her eyes.

"Still," she says, "I've heard worse from the nobles in Val Royeaux. And that's only the things they'll say to my face. I'm sure the'y're much nastier behind my back."

"It's... less an insult, perhaps, than Andruil's idea of a joke," Solas tells her. "' _Da'lav_ , in this context, could also be 'hand,' referencing your..." He hesitates.

"Asymmetry?" Lavellan suggests good-naturedly.

Solas doesn't laugh. "And _da_ on its own, as a prefix, is a diminutive."

"Like _da'len_ ," Lavellan says.

"She's saying you're beneath her," Solas agrees reluctantly.

"She said all that in one word?" Lavellan wonders.

"It's a long word," he points out.

"Not nearly as catchy as 'Fen'harel,'" she says. 

That earns her an actual smile.

"Andruil said she was bringing me a gift," she remembers. "Any idea what she meant by that?"

Solas' smile vanishes. "No," he says, "though knowing her, it isn't good. She and I have a long history of backhanded gifts and double-edged swords."

"Wonderful," Lavellan says grimly. "I can't wait."

"She didn't try to trick you into re-entering the Fade physically?" Solas asks. "Or take anything from you, even in a dream?"

Lavellan shakes her head. "She said... she said they 'already have what they need.'"

"That doesn't bode well," Solas says.

"No," she agrees, "so there's no time to waste." She stands up. "Let's see what this eluvian has in store for us, shall we?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can always badger me for chapter updates on [Tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> " _Telassa Ghilasan_ was never intended for humans to cross," Solas says. "It is 'the place leading nowhere,' suitable for the immortal People with nothing but time at their disposal, to meander and to explore. For short-lived humans, it is a labyrinth, a quagmire. It will fight you at every turn."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again as always to the invaluable [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) for kicking my ass until I finish a freakin' chapter.
> 
> Some canon-typical violence in this chapter.

By the time Lavellan is dressed and ready, the rest of her companions have already assembled in Hawke's study, giving the finished eluvian a wide berth. At first glance it doesn't seem like much - no more than a mundane mirror, albeit an incredibly ornate one. The eluvians she'd seen in Solas' network hadn't been as elaborate as this; Lavellan wonders if that had been Merrill's personal touch, or if the artifact had been that way when she'd first discovered it.

Dorian stifles a yawn as she approaches. "If you so much as even _think_ about saying 'good morning,' I'll shave your head in your sleep," he threatens.

"Hadn't dreamed of it," Lavellan assures him.

"No 'dream' puns either," he continues. "You know, usually if I'm staying up all night, there's a much better incentive than this." He leers at Cullen.

Cullen's blush is expected, but the small smile that follows is not. Lavellan's eyebrows shoot up into her hairline; she glances at Dorian.

"Don't give me that face," he says.

"What face? There's no face," Lavellan tells him innocently. "This is just my face."

Across the room, Solas is deep in conversation with Merrill, explaining the nature of the spell she'll be using to awaken the eluvian for good. Merrill's petite face is scrunched in concentration as she copies the gestures Solas makes, his elegant fingers outlining sigils in the air. Lavellan swallows, and doesn't think about how gentle those fingers had been on the stump of her arm less than an hour ago. She waits for them to finish before she approaches, holding the parcel she'd picked up in Hightown yesterday.

Sera had teased her for it, but it wasn't as if she'd gone to the market looking for it specifically; they'd been there so Sera could procure a new bowstring, and one of the mage's booths had caught Lavellan's eye. 

"I have something for you," she tells Solas, and hands it over.

The staff's craftsmanship is on par with anything she'd seen Harritt forge in the Inquisition's undercroft; it hadn't, at first, even looked like a staff to Lavellan. She'd initially thought it was simply a beautifully crafted glaive, until she'd noticed the line of crystals set just under the blade, each no bigger than a robin's egg. It had been apparent that the staff was made primarily for physical combat, and the ability to store magical energy was only a secondary benefit.

Though she'd purchased it without a second thought, she still has qualms about gifting it to Solas; still, it isn't as if Dorian needs it, and she hopes it will act as a sign of good faith.

"You won't be able to use the crystals," she says, not wanting Solas to get any ideas about her letting him out of the cuffs. "But there's no telling what we'll encounter in Arlathan, and you should have a weapon."

_I cannot protect you,_ she remembers Cassandra telling her, all those years ago, when the Breach was still new. _And I cannot expect you to be defenseless._

For packaging purposes, the staff is in three pieces. She shows Solas how to snap the two sections of the shaft so that they seal together with a tiny glimmer of enchanted light. The shaft fits perfectly into the blade's socket, where a similar enchantment activates.   
"Thank you," Solas says, and though she'd given him countless weapons during their time together in the Inquisition - even crafted a few herself - this one feels different. Perhaps, she thinks, it's more than a weapon; it is also a promise.

"You're welcome," she says.

Behind them, Sera clears her throat rather loudly. "Can we get this over with already?" she asks. "Or d'you want to fondle Solas' shaft some more?"

Lavellan chokes, and now even _Cullen_ is laughing at her, dammit.

"Right, yes, you're all hilarious," she says once the snickering has finally died down. "So, Solas, any idea what we should be expecting in here? Or who's in control of the eluvian network now?"

"Theoretically, I still control it," Solas says, "though it might be more accurate to say that no one can use it, now. After I wrested control of the network from Briala, I enchanted the gateways so that they could only be opened with the proper password, and a specific spell, both of which are only known to me."

"Not even your lieutenants?" Dorian asks.

"After an entire army of Qunari stormed my gates, I became a bit more concerned with security," Solas answers lightly.

"That's... reasonable," Cullen says.

"Wish there were an army of Qunari at _my_ gates," Sera remarks. " _Woof._ "

"Circumstances being what they are, I am willing to share that knowledge now," Solas continues, "and I've taught Merrill the requisite spell. I'd be happy to teach you as well, Dorian, when we have time."

"That's probably wise," Dorian agrees.

"And the password?" Lavellan asks.

Solas motions Merrill forward. The odd elf's fingers flash in a complicated flurry of gestures, and the blank surface of the eluvian glows with an eerie, blue light.

" _Tarennas dar'athim,_ " Solas says.

The eluvian's surface distorts, ripples forming around its center. 

Lavellan's grasp of the ancient elven language is shaky at best, and her vocabulary is limited to what she learned in her clan and the bits and pieces she'd picked up from Solas and Morrigan. Still, she's fairly sure Solas' password means 'remember to be humble,' which... isn't exactly something she would have expected of the Dread Wolf.

"Is that it?" Sera asks.

"That's it," Solas confirms.

Lavellan turns to Merrill. "Thank you for your help," she says.

Merrill smiles. "I should be thanking you, shouldn't I? I couldn't fix it on my own."

"You would have figured it out eventually," Lavellan says.

"You're an excellent pupil," Solas agrees. "For someone trained by the Dalish," he amends.

Lavellan casts him a disparaging look. "Really?" she says. "You couldn't just leave it at 'excellent pupil.'"

He frowns.

"It's quite alright," Merrill says. "Safe travels, to all of you."

"Thank you," Lavellan says again, and looks at the eluvian. "Right. Who wants to go first?"

"Let me," Cullen volunteers, strapping his shield to his arm. "We've no idea what we'll encounter, unless I'm mistaken. We should be prepared."

"You've never been through, have you?" Dorian asks. "It's... unpleasant."

"Friggin' awful," Sera says.

"You'll be fine," Lavellan assures Cullen. "It's like... walking through a waterfall."

"It is not," Dorian says. Lavellan glares at him.

"Only one way to find out," Cullen says, and steps through. 

Lavellan follows without hesitation. She'd only been partially lying; it _is_ like walking through a waterfall, if the waterfall were a thousand miles across, and made of tar rather than water. There's an incredible roaring in her ears, and a heavy pressure all around that makes her grit her teeth -

\- and then she's through it, wobbling slightly, Cullen right in front of her.

Solas is only a step behind her, striding through as gracefully as if he does this everyday - which, Lavellan supposes, he might have, once - and Sera and Dorian stumble through at his heels.

"That was SHITE," Sera says, shaking her head like an oversized dog.

"I don't like this place," Cullen says quietly.

" _Telassa Ghilasan_ was never intended for humans to cross," Solas says. "It is 'the place leading nowhere,' suitable for the immortal People with nothing but time at their disposal, to meander and to explore. For short-lived humans, it is a labyrinth, a quagmire. It will fight you at every turn."

"Wonderful," Dorian says. "I do hope the 'quagmire' is metaphorical? I'm rather fond of these boots."

"The Arlathan eluvian is not far," Solas continues, ignoring him. "This way."

Solas leads them along the winding cliff roads that Lavellan remembers from the last time she'd been here; though it's been nearly five years, she supposes it's not a place one easily forgets. She and Sera easily keep pace with Solas, but Dorian and Cullen have a harder time of it. She spares a moment to feel slightly guilty about how hard she's been pushing Dorian - between the endless complex magical work, the night without sleep, and now the Crossroads draining him, he has to be positively exhausted.

Lavellan is so lost in thought that she nearly collides with Solas' broad back when he stops abruptly.

"What?" she asks, following his gaze.

There before them, perhaps fifty feet away, is a - well, Lavellan doesn't have a word to describe it other than 'rift,' though that doesn't quite fit. It isn't like the Fade rifts she's so accustomed to, no more than jagged tears in the fabric of the physical realm.

This one is smaller, less asymmetrical. If Lavellan is to trust her gut, she might think it intentional rather than a random occurrence. It floats a few feet in the air above the path Solas had been about to lead them down - the only path across the chasm so wide Lavellan can't see the other side.

"How is this here?" she asks, dumbfounded.

Solas' brow furrows. "I... don't know," he says.

"Excuse me, what?" Dorian demands, more than a little out of breath. "The great Dread Wolf doesn't know?"

Solas shakes his head.

"Great," Lavellan mutters, flicking the safety off her grappling-hook prosthetic. "Are we expecting demons, then?"

"Pretty much always expecting demons," Sera quips.

"No, the Fade isn't..." Solas starts, and if he's at a loss for words, Lavellan's definitely concerned. "It isn't _adjacent_ to this place, for lack of a better term. Fade rifts can't open here. It isn't possible."

"It certainly looks possible," Lavellan tells him.

"Not by accident," Solas says.

"So someone created it?" Cullen asks.

Before Solas can answer, a pulse of energy erupts from the rift. "Get away from the edge," Lavellan shouts, scrambling back just in time as the ground beneath them trembles violently. The rift yawns open like a terrible mouth, and from its depths, an enormous clawed hand emerges.

The hand, of course, is followed by a body - nearly the size of the Nightmare, but shapeless and writhing, shooting forth what might be limbs, or perhaps tentacles, chaotic and half-formed, always retreating back into the central mass. As Lavellan watches, skin crawling, it solidifies into something _vaguely_ recognizable, shaped more like one of the alpha darkspawn or Pride demons she's accustomed to, though its hide isn't purple but the slick-dark red of old blood.

"What the _fuck_ is that thing," Lavellan curses, and the limb that might also be its head swivels towards her.

"I think it heard you," Sera whispers.

The thing screeches incomprehensibly, and the rift pulsates again; this time a dozen or so demons pour out, and that's something Lavellan's equipped to deal with.

"Watch the cliffs," she yells.

Her smoke grenade and Sera's frost flask burst on the ground at the same time. Lavellan's out of range before Dorian's barrier hits her, but she sees it descend over the other four, at least; Cullen and Sera wade into the thick of the demons, Solas and Dorian farther behind.

Lavellan's always been the kind of fighter to carefully pick her targets rather than charge in recklessly. She fires off her grappling hook, bracing her feet and yanking an unsuspecting despair demons towards her. She grits her teeth against the cold snap as she plunges her dagger into its face, wrestling it to the ground to stab it again and again until it dissolves into a wispy pile of rags.

She leaps up and sprints at the next nearest targets - two wraiths that may not even know she's there before they're dead - and then a terror knocks her off her feet, swordlike talons pinning her to the ground.

"Oi!" she hears Sera scream, and a person-shaped fireball collides with the terror, and - yes, Sera's set herself on fire again. Lavellan cuts down the shade that tries to flank her friend, but the red _thing_ is right behind it. Lavellan backs away instinctively; a few of Sera's arrows fly one-two-three past her to sink into the thing's flesh, and it roars, tail whipping around.

The tail catches Lavellan right in the ribs, knocking the wind out of her and sending her and Sera both crashing into the cliff face behind them. Sera's head strikes stone with a sickening _crack_. Lavellan reels, gasping, and lashes out with her dagger, catching flesh before it's wrenched out of her hand. Another of the creature's limbs wraps itself around her neck, squeezing; her vision swims black - 

\- and then Solas is in front of her, bladed staff a silver blur, slicing cleanly through the limb. Lavellan shoves the appendage off, dazed.

Solas doesn't press his advantage, keeping himself between Lavellan and Sera and the creature. The monster howls at him, only to be waylaid by Cullen and Dorian, who have finished dispatching the rest of the demons.

Creature distracted, Solas turns to look at Lavellan, but she just points wordlessly at Sera; Solas bends to check the unconscious elf's head. Lavellan staggers to her feet, casting about for her dagger, which she finds embedded in another bloody, severed limb.

The monster is too large for her to pull, but she launches the grappling hook at its unprotected back anyway, dragging herself atop it; her legs wrap around its head-limb for purchase and she drags her dagger through what should be its neck, wrenching its head around. 

Rather than die like a normal eldritch abomination should, it merely screeches again, limbs twisting to knock her off her perch; Dorian hoists her up as Cullen pulls its focus again.

The long wound she left gapes open like torn fabric, the shifting weight of the creature's hide pulling it wide. It isn't so much hide, or flesh, she realizes, as it is armor - an outer layer of protection for something more vulnerable inside.

Cullen seems to see the same thing she does, and his next sword strike finds the same wound she'd made, tearing downward. Dorian flings a fireball into the gash, and the thing lurches away from the explosion; Lavellan sinks her dagger into its back and rips it open once more, and Cullen lunges to follow her up with his own sword.

Between the three of them, they tear and tear at the creature's armor, until it teeters backwards and crashes to the ground with a final, pitiful wail.

The protective outer hide dissolves like dust, dissipating in the Crossroads' gentle breeze, and the shape left behind is -

\- human.

Dumbfounded, Lavellan, Cullen, and Dorian can only stare.

"Careful," Dorian warns, panting, "if it's a demon, it may be taking another form to try and fool us."

"It isn't a demon," Cullen says, holding up his sword, streaked in blood. "Demons don't bleed."

Cautiously, Lavellan creeps forward, the figure facedown and unmoving on the ground. She nudges its foot tentatively with the toe of her boot; when it doesn't react, she bends to turn it over.

The man's face is a bloody mess, dirt and grime caked into unkempt hair and an overgrown beard, but it's still unmistakeable.

"Hawke," Lavellan says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [Tumblr!](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hawke (if it _is_ Hawke, as Dorian points out, and not something else masquerading as the Champion) has no external injuries except a gash inside his left elbow, almost surgical in its precision and already partially healed; an old wound, Solas says, and a worrisome one.
> 
> If Lavellan is right, Hawke is the 'gift' Andruil had promised her, and if the Evanuris had managed to find Hawke in the Fade...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, sometimes inspiration strikes harder than I'm prepared for... thanks of course to [Trish](http://archiveofourown.org/users/PMLolz) for rolling with it today! This chapter marks the end of Part 5 (finally!) but have no fear, there are more installments to come...

Things happen very quickly after that:

The five (six) of them head back the way they'd come, Solas and Dorian hauling Hawke's unconscious form between them, Cullen carrying Sera. Lavellan sprints ahead to scout for any remaining demons, ignoring the stabbing pain from what is probably three or four cracked ribs. In the state they're in, they'd hardly be a match for any enemies, but thankfully they find none.

Lavellan bursts through Merrill's eluvian first, but the former Dalish is nowhere to be found. Solas sets about tending to injuries - as well as he can without magic. Lavellan volunteers to go find Varric, Merrill, and a healer, but Cullen ends up going instead, as he's uninjured and knows Kirkwall better even though it's been years since he'd last set foot in the city. He hands off Solas' phylactery to Lavellan as the rest of them pool what potions and poultices they have.

Dorian has a few scrapes and bruises but is otherwise fine, and Sera turns out to be concussed but nothing more. She's coherent enough to hold a simple conversation, at least, so Solas sends her off to rest. There isn't much that can be done for Lavellan's ribs, and there doesn't seem to be anything punctured internally, which just leaves Hawke.

Hawke (if it _is_ Hawke, as Dorian points out, and not something else masquerading as the Champion) has no external injuries except a gash inside his left elbow, almost surgical in its precision and already partially healed; an old wound, Solas says, and a worrisome one.

If Lavellan is right, Hawke is the 'gift' Andruil had promised her, and if the Evanuris had managed to find Hawke in the Fade...

Physically, Hawke seems to be healthy, but he won't wake, even when Lavellan smashes open one of her special Mythal's Blessing grenades to try and revive him. Solas hypothesizes that Hawke's spirit needs time to recover from whatever he endured over seven years trapped physically in the Fade, and he might not wake for some time.

Dorian is in the process of carefully binding Lavellan's midsection to keep her ribs from shifting around too much when Merrill bursts in the front door, Cullen hard on her heels alongside a dark-skinned, heavily tattooed man Lavellan doesn't recognize.

Cullen's barely through explaining that the man is Nimat, a Rivaini spirit-mage Merrill knows, before they're interrupted by the arrival of Varric and a red-headed, broad-shouldered woman Lavellan can only assume is Aveline.

Lavellan and her companions politely excuse themselves from Hawke's room to give the Champion's friends some privacy, and reconvene (minus Sera) in the foyer.

"Well," Dorian says, "that was unexpected," which has to be the biggest understatement Lavellan's ever heard. No one laughs. Lavellan wonders if perhaps they're all too overwhelmed, physically and emotionally, to really process anything.

"We should," she starts to say, before she realizes she has no idea what they _should_ do. The idea of venturing back into the Crossroads seems daunting, and they're all exhausted, but there's the matter of the Evanuris, who likely have Hawke's 'essence,' and therefore a means of escaping the Fade.

"Perhaps," Solas ventures, "it might be best if we took some time to recover, given recent events."

Neither Dorian nor Cullen seem to have any protests, so Lavellan just nods dumbly, and the four of them disperse to the various guest rooms. Lavellan's is currently occupied by Sera, but Lavellan shucks her bloody gear, crawls into the bed next to her anyway, and sleeps.

Or she tries to, anyway. She feels raw, on edge, like a bowstring stretched too far. When she does manage to doze off, she's haunted by images of the Fade, the rifts, Corypheus, the Evanuris. The possessed Wardens, eyes manic and red. Andruil's eyeless face, her smile of hundreds of teeth. The look in Hawke's eyes before he'd turned to face the Nightmare.

She wakes pawing restlessly at Cole's amulet, which clicks against Solas' jawbone pendant; she hasn't taken either of them off, even to sleep, since she acquired them. She wriggles into her pants, makes sure both necklaces are tucked securely beneath her shirt, and heads back out into the front hall.

Varric is there, sitting at a table with his back to her. He's scribbling away at something, several crumpled parchments scattered around him. "Can't sleep?" he asks without looking up.

"Seems wrong to," Lavellan says. "How is he?"

Varric stops writing, and pinches the crooked bridge of his nose. "Well, he's alive."

Lavellan frowns, taken aback. "Is - that it?"

Varric doesn't answer, and Lavellan steps forward hesitantly, laying her hand on his shoulder.

"Don't," Varric says, but his voice cracks, and Lavellan realizes then that he's crying.

"Varric," she says, stunned, and wraps her arm around him; Varric turns his face into her shoulder.

"I keep thinking," he manages hoarsely, "he was alive - he was alive this whole time, and we didn't try to - _I_ didn't try to find him - didn't even look, didn't -"

"We couldn't have known," Lavellan tells him, though she's been thinking the same thing. "We all thought... it was impossible, for him to have..."

"But he did," Varric says, "he did, and I'm - sitting here, trying to figure out how to tell his brother, or - Maker's breath, _Fenris_ \- I don't even know how to _find_ Fenris - and what do I say? How do I - tell them, that he's alive, after all this time, but he might not - Nimat says he might not ever wake up - or if he does, he won't be -"

Lavellan holds him, unperturbed by the awkward position she's still in, half-hunched over him at his chair. "I know," she says helplessly, but what else can she say?

Varric collects himself after a few minutes, his face blotchy and his eyes red. "I don't know where to start," he admits.

Lavellan nods. "What did Nimat say? Who is he, anyway?"

Varric sighs. "Some friend of Merrill's," he says. "They met each other way back when the Breach was still active, fighting off spirits or something. He's from Rivain, I guess, and he was exiled for some reason, but I don't really know much more than that. He's got some experience with spirits and things, and he's a good healer too, so I guess she figured he'd be useful to have around."

"And Hawke?"

"No one's sure," Varric says. "He won't wake up. Nimat says there's 'strange energies,' or something - like most people have one or two strong energies that they give off, but Hawke's are all messed up, but I don't know what any of it means. Aveline's worried he's possessed. Pretty likely, considering where he's been."

"But we won't know until he wakes," Lavellan says.

"If he wakes," Varric corrects.

"He will," Lavellan tells him, trying to sound more confident than she feels. "Did... Solas say anything about it?"

Varric's mouth twists in a grimace. "There isn't exactly much of a precedent," he answers. "The only other people who spent any amount of time physically in the Fade were the old magisters, and, well."

"Right," Lavellan says, thinking of Corypheus.

"But he looks... normal," Varric says. "Not corrupted, like the darkspawn."

"That's a good sign," Lavellan theorizes.

"I hope so."

Lavellan gestures at the letter Varric's trying to write. "What are you going to say?"

"Just the facts, I suppose," he tells her. "Hawke is alive, he's in a coma, we don't know anything else, come to Kirkwall if you can." He rubs his eyes. "I've been trying to find a way to pretty it up, but there just isn't one."

"No, I wouldn't think so," she agrees.

"Carver's still at Weisshaupt, last I heard," Varric says, "so he's easy enough to contact. As for Fenris..."

"You haven't heard from him?"

Varric shakes his head. "While we were in the Inquisition, he was hunting down slavers in the south. I had a contact for him, wrote to him about Hawke when... well, you know. I know the letter reached him, because Leliana's scout said she found him, but... after that, he just disappeared."

"Where might he have gone?" Lavellan asks.

"No idea," Varric says. "With Fenris... you never really knew what was going on inside that elf's head. Hawke did, maybe, and Isabela had him figured out, but all I could ever read from him was that he had a shitty hand in Wicked Grace." He sighs. "He might have gone back to Seheron, or maybe even ran off to join the Qunari."

"Well," Lavellan reasons, "if Isabela knew him better, maybe she knows how to find him? Or at least where to start. You have to try, Varric."

He considers that. "That's not a bad idea, actually. I know where she makes port these days, I could ask her to look for him." He looks up at her. "Guess you're not all bad ideas."

Lavellan smiles at him wryly, trying to cheer him up even the tiniest bit. "That's why I'm the Inquisitor," she jokes.

"Not anymore," Varric reminds her, "you're unemployed."

She snorts. "Never thought of it that way," she says.

Above them, on the upper landing, Hawke's bedroom door opens; a second later, Aveline leans over the railing. "You'd better come back up, Varric," she says, her accent Fereldan despite almost two decades of living in Kirkwall. Her hair is cropped short around her ears, freckled face lined around her mouth and eyes. "You too, Messere Lavellan."

The two of them practically sprint up the stairs, though Lavellan's slightly more cautious walking in the door. The mage called Nimat is hunched over Hawke's bedside, eyes closed and murmuring in a language Lavellan doesn't recognize, though she assumes it's Rivaini. Merrill hovers anxiously behind him, face pinched and worried.

"What's happening?" Varric whispers. 

Aveline waves her hand at the bed. "He says there's spirits, bound inside Hawke," she says quietly, and Lavellan can hear the blatant disapproval in her voice. "He's trying to contact them, rather than wake Hawke directly."

"Can he do that?" Lavellan asks.

"Apparently," Aveline replies dryly.

"The spirits may be what's keeping him asleep," Merrill says, "and if they can be suppressed, there's a chance he'll wake."

"Hush," says Nimat, and Lavellan can _feel_ the strange echo of his voice. She shudders. She's never met a Rivaini mage before, but she knows their unusual views on spirits and magic, and she's more than a little apprehensive.

Hawke's eyes flutter, the whites showing under restless lids. His hands close into fists, then open again, fingers twitching and clutching at midair. Nimat tilts his head back, face raised to the ceiling, and his own eyes roll back unnaturally.

"This is creepy," Varric whispers, and Merrill shushes him.

Hawke thrashes suddenly, head whipping side to side on the pillow - a harsh snarling sound issues forth from his throat, akin to the screeching of the red creature he'd been in the Fade - and then, abruptly, he falls still again, and Nimat's eyes return to normal.

"There," says the Rivaini mage, and Hawke opens his eyes.

"Shit," Varric says, and lurches forward; Hawke's gaze is glassy and unfocused, but it falls on the dwarf first.

"Varric," he croaks.

His voice sounds as if he hasn't used it in years. Perhaps he hasn't, Lavellan thinks.

"I'm here," Varric says fervently, "I'm here - you're home, Hawke, you're safe."

"Fenris," Hawke says next, and Lavellan's heart sinks.

Varric looks at Aveline, then at Merrill; both women's faces are somber, almost pitying.

"We'll find him, Hawke," Lavellan says, when no one else speaks up, and Hawke's blue eyes find her next.

"You," he says hoarsely, and Lavellan steps towards him.

"Hello, Champion," she says quietly.

"You," he says again, and with a speed that shocks all of them, his hand flies out and finds her throat.

"Hawke!" someone shouts - Merrill, maybe - as Hawke drags her towards him; her hand clutches uselessly at his, inhumanly tight around her windpipe. She gasps, but can't get a breath. 

Before she can black out, strong arms haul her away from Hawke's bedside - Aveline. Varric puts himself immediately between her and Hawke, who is now muttering agitatedly. Lavellan doubles over, coughing violently; blotches of color expand and contract in her vision. 

"Maker's balls, Hawke," Varric yells -

"Put him back to sleep, Merrill!" Aveline orders -

\- and Lavellan gets her wits about her just in time to make sense of what Hawke is saying - the same word, over and over.

" _Arlathvhen,_ " he snarls, " _arlathvhen, arlathvhen -_ "

Lavellan breaks free of Aveline's protective grasp, staggering back towards Hawke. "What about _arlathvhen?_ " she demands. "Hawke -"

His gaze finds her again, surprisingly focused - for a moment, she can clearly see the old Champion there, lucid and alert.

"The Dalish," he rasps, "they're the first - at _arlathvhen,_ they said - Inquisitor, you have to stop them -"

"Who?" Lavellan asks desperately, "the Evanuris?"

Fear overcomes Hawke's face, and his breathing quickens again; "Merrill," Aveline barks.

"No, wait," Lavellan says - 

"The gods are coming to _arlathvhen,_ " Hawke says, and then Merrill's spell falls over him, and he sleeps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes I forget to post on [Tumblr](http://mojo-da-jojo.tumblr.com) when I update, but I'm trying to get better, I promise! Anyway, I'm nice and I love feedback!


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